All butterflies fade away and leave behind scars and sunken hearts but at least they have enough time to compose dirges out of dust and soliloquies out of sunshine.

For all I know a butterfly might lie dead on the windowsill and have left this world with but a thumbprint smudge of ochre ecstasy.
It could be halfway to purgatory and wingless still, and for all it’s worth it makes me happy to see this lonely troubadour released from such an unkind place. I guess I don’t the deserve satisfaction because I didn’t help it along at all

but still.

I’m just happy that at least I didn’t have to kill a butterfly
To witness the stars smiling at
A stained glass vanishing act