Looking up at the barren blue sky,
is a golden gilded butterfly.

Astride a jeweled jasmine petal,
it sits supple but still.
Wrought wings glinting,
like lighted lamps added in frill.

On a furtive frond of the palm,
that kisses the veranda’s marble arm,
lies the drab dull butterfly.
Its gaze covetous,
legs skittish sprigs.

The feeling, magnified, is forlorn.
Thoughts, if they were indeed coherent, insatiable.
It wants what its not,
beyond what it has.

Eyes like worlds afire.
Antennas like princely shards.
Beauty so candidly captivating,
sung across the horizon by bards.

It doesn’t quite perceive,
for its low in cognition.
But pray that it could
and see that the beauty it seeks,
cannot sustain without upkeep.

The gold needs glimmer to laugh.
The stones need rain to weep.

You, my dear, might be drab in vision,
monochromatic markings like precise incisions.
But you are alive in thoughts and dreams.
A multitude of color bursting on winged seams.

So be grateful.
Rejoice and take flight.
Carve out your ebullient existence
in your own dull dulcet light.