Butterflies

I stand silent,
I stand still,
A jar within my hand.
Waiting for the butterfly that soon will be mine. snatch it from the air,
And close the lid on top.
I run into the kitchen and put it on the counter top,
Watching as the little thing moves about, a flip and a flop.
Yet then something chills my back whispering, murmuring, in my ear,
All the time saying, "Nothing beautiful can grow here."
I shove it off and try to ignore the sound that always attacked before.
I walk upstairs and try to sleep,
yet it long to come but when it does,
It's so very deep.
The sunlight Dances upon my lashes telling me to wake,
Then I smile and run down to found my fatal mistake.
The butterfly, it's body, no longer in the air.
The soul had dashed of in the night, leaving the body there.
Then the sound ever creeping, silently starts me weeping,
whispering murmuring, speaking to me in fear,
" Nothing beautiful can grow here."
I go outside and take off the top,
the body, it would only drop,
to the ground and it would stay there,
No longer with the others in the air.
I sit in the darkness of the room,
That always seems to consume me with gloom.
I look through the boarded up windows, And watch as the butterflies float about.
I shut my arms and let my hand reach out for the sanity that is not there
all the time hearing, that whispering and jeering, venomous voice say in my ear,
saying, whispering, murmuring, "Nothing beautiful can grow here."