the lights dim <br />alone he sits at his table <br />composing memories <br />in his brain <br />for butterflies <br />of the daylight <br />which he caught <br />in a jar as a boy <br /> <br />why did he do this? <br /> <br />was it the beauty <br />of the insect <br />that so drew him <br />to want to hold <br />them forever <br />in his world? <br />or <br />was it the patterns <br />of their wings <br />which gave him <br />such delight? <br /> <br />fluttering <br />in the garden <br />he would watch <br />them for <br />hours at <br />a time <br /> <br />those that <br />he selected <br />to keep <br />he would <br />eventually <br />kill by <br />driving a <br />pin through <br />their bodies. <br /> <br />why did he do this? <br /> <br />as a man <br />he wasn't sure <br />at the ethical <br />issue of <br />murdering <br />the butterflies <br />but then <br />again there <br />were so many <br />issues <br />he wasn't sure about. <br /> <br />yawning <br />he reached <br />across the <br />table for his <br />notebook <br />there were <br />so many <br />more butterflies <br />left to kill<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/butterflies-54/
