The Wind Took Her

49

My life as a butterfly

As a catipillar I ate.
Ignored all the comments of hate.
Fat and fuzzy they called me.
As I sat up in the tree.
I started to believe the nasty words,
Sung by the envied socialistic birds.
I wound myself into depression
with just me and the feeling of compression.

No one could make fun of me in my cacoon.
I had forgotten the beauty of the sun, stars, and moon.

I emerged early that spring
And joined the birds in a festive spring.
I was beautiful now.
I used to be a catipillar, how?
I accepted who I was
And my beauty was all the buzz.
I joined with the royal kings.
I was the queen of springs.

As the days grudged on,
my life became a boring yawn.
Until one day I got tangled in a net.
I was not dead. At least, not yet.
Tossed into a glass jar.
I could not fly very far.
I was stuck in captivity
With nothing, even no activity.

Next I was poked and prodded with needles and tweezers.
By some old guy sleezer.
I could feel life fleeting
I thought the high life was supposed to be treating.
Encased in a shadow box.
A dead relic. All happiness lost.
Beauty was nothing short of a rave
But it lead me to my grave.