To the Dead Butterfly

To the dead butterfly that lays it's patterns 

Towards the ceiling outside my bedroom

I ask,

How long did you crawl undignified 

On your tiny limbs,

Spending how many hours 

Filling your premature body

With trembling leaves?

How long did it take for your beauty to grow

With your wings?

How did it feel to fly?

How did it feel to see the grass with

Newly formed eyes 

With perspectives gracefully 

Fluttering in the air?

How many hurricanes did you flutter

Into terrible existence?

Your new beauty did not excuse you.

How many times did you fruitlessly bang

You head against the window?

How long did you flicker and twitch your

Wings in agony on the ground?

Was it Starvation or the feel of defeat

That killed you?

I too had to crawl undignified 

On my hands,

I too had to fill my premature body

With milk 

Rather than leaves,

I too flutter and twitch in agony 

From the feel of defeat,

I too am trapped behind the glass window

Of mortality.