Butterfly

Dripping mucus,
From a dry branch in the
Dim moonlight,
Hardens around undeveloped wings,
Pale and transparent in hue,
In the first stages of decay.

Slowly,
Gently to the beat of a non-existent drum –
Atrophied muscles twitch and pulse
And the cocoon fluctuates,
Glowing slightly.

No sound is made
As the fragile shell cracks
And splinters,
Pushing the creature through
And propelling it to the ground.

It remains motionless now.
Not a twitch, not a pulse –
Almost as if it were stillborn.
Hours pass,
And...

With a rush of the drowned
That now draws breath,
Destroyed wings flutter wildly –
Somehow.
And the silence is broken
As the dead butterfly struggles
To take to the air.

Shadows draw in
To consume it once more,
But it pushes past –
Finding freedom in the sky.