Dead Butterfly

Barely alive. Wings clipped.
A bird of prey came
fly
or die.

It can't fly
it hops
tries to survive.

One more second
another moment
it's time.

The ants are marshaling
lining up for the kill
what a bounty
a
thrill.

The dying is beautiful
wings are broke
they remain a masterpiece
the symmetry of color and line.

The movements still graceful
wings wisp
no longer perfect, but the soundless movement
are to behold.

It dances once more. The last.
Wings no longer flutter
The first ant sees.
It signals to the others
the feast is ready.

They swarm
and
carry away.

The wings bobbing in the breeze
the wind and ant in control now
the beauty marches forward
soon devoured.

Destiny
and
death. Cruel partners.
Destructive
and
creative.

The beauty comes
and
goes
again
and
again.

Before and after the dead butterfly.