Today I saw a butterfly;
tons are always flying around mom's yard when winter approaches.
I'd read somewhere that butterflies are a good omen,
that they are a sign of emerging change and metamorphosis.
I've always been afraid of change but when I see a butterfly,
my heart lights up,
hopeful for positive change.
I got closer to the seemingly still butterfly,
its wings were held in and weren't moving.
I grabbed the chance to take a few snaps,
but something wasn't quite right.
The butterfly was hurt.
I extended my hand to touch the dying thing's precious wing.
It merely flapped once... and then nothing.
I was saddened by this because
a typical butterfly is full of life;
it is graceful and flattering to the eye.
A typical butterfly is full of colours of beauty.
It struck me that the poor thing was dying,
losing all of its colour.
I've always been the superstitious kind; the one that lets their superstition drive them to the edge of insanity.
It got the better of me again; everything I see turns into an object for spiritual and psychological analysis.
I analyse everything:
why I met the first person who broke my heart,
why I had to grow up the way I did,
why I am the way I am,
why I hurt the last person who showed a little love interest in me,
why I always shove everyone away when I feel like loving them,
why I always think they have ulterior motives when all they want to do is just love me,
why I make it seem like love is such a difficult and almost impossible thing for me
Could it be that the dying monarch is me?
Am I losing my beautiful and inviting colours and fading to the unknown?