The destroyer of death

 

The thought, sight or proof of death

is disconcerting, mostly fearful,

But hold a dead butterfly in your hand

and death loses its meaning,

It looks so fragile, lovely, beautiful, colorful;

so near to life and all that it stands for

that the word ‘death’ loses meaning.

It feels a representative of eternal life,

immortally frozen in a moment,

Life’s colors stamped with authority,

The form, the shape

dispelling the formless shades of death,

A colorful stamp of life

on the face of death.

The fearsome word loses its meaning

in association with a butterfly—

dead or alive,

The gist of smiles, fragrance, flying, nectar,

fluttering and playfulness,--

a life crystallized to a feathery diamond;

something bigger than even life,

Death looks so-so common in its face.