My father once gave me a gift,

three dead butterflies in a picture frame,

each one almost exactly like the other,

each one arranged inside the same.

I thought it was a peculiar present,

to trap such beauty behind a glaze,

cover it in some cheap wrapping paper,

only to hang it on my wall to sit for days.

And as the sun traveled across my room,

the shadows of the wings traveled too,

they seemed to float in that damn box,

all three creatures begging to break through.

I wanted nothing more than to set them free,

but I knew my efforts would be futile,

I prayed they would escape into freedom,

watching them wither away was agonizingly brutal.

Their grey and yellow wings, so elegant and thin,

began to crack and break within their shrine,

and I winced as the pieces fell one by one,

I'm still haunted by dreams of them dancing in the mid-summer shine.