Dear broken butterfly, 

Would you float,—yet again,

Into the wells of light and life?

Would you flutter,—yet again,

Out of the abyss of pain and strife?

Your exterior; opaque;

Coating the fractured ‘you’ within. 

Your form, ever flawless against the midsummer morning sun. 

A facade. 

Dear broken butterfly, 

I'm sorry for pushing,—overpushing. 

You,—tangled in their web of death,

Your beauty, scorched 

Your light, now a dim halo. 

I see you, a broken bellé. 

Plummeting.

1, 2. 

Your tears.

Crystals.

Of blood.

Absurdity.