The Butterfly

I wanted to write a poem to display my view; that being, life is short, grasp it.

Delinquent little Butterfly,
Why don't you spread your wings?
Oh are they trapped? A dreadful shame
amongst all other things.

The patterns fade
and wash away,
They are no longer more.
The stunning wings they used to be,
now ashes on the floor.

The flight decayed
and blew astray
The moment was sustained.
And held there in a patch of light,
a mark of great disdain.

Oh poor poor little butterfly,
the winds not on your back.
Your colours gone and all that's left,
are little butterfly tracks.