The field I stand in is covered in the red colors of the flames. I glance at the butterfly that is on the grass leaf by my hands. It attempts to fly off in its small world of agony and fire. The black ash falls on the ground and rises from my burning skin. The wings smolder as they flap in weak effort to escape the struggle of life and this hell it has found itself in. It rises high enough to struggle in front of my eyes stinging from this gray haze. I watch as it begins to fall and reach out my hands to catch it. It falls on my palms filled with ashes and I cry tears that fall on the small creature's struggle for a life that is out of it's grasp. The flames engulf it and my red filled tears can hardly stop this hell fire. I watch as ash covers the creature and my tears fall on my hands filled with nothing more than the butterfly's ashes and its small damned soul.
I have never looked at butterflies in the same way. I don't know what the butterfly is supposed to represent but it means something just unsure right now. It's like some type of metaphor.
