Dried Butterflies - poem 1

Dried butterflies paint a mural upon their wall.
It's a graveyard of dreams that might've flown
To a field of flowers that might've shown
How they compliment each other, for us all,
To make the world a colorful place

Some who see colorful treasures
Want to take them from our world
And hide them away in dark lairs.
They take them with such evil measures
To show us an iniquity unfurled;

A butterfly caught and starved
Made into a husk, imprisoned in a jar
Pinned by her wings, stretching outwards
As a macabre imitation devoid of her beauty
Her life's memory fading away, like a blinking star

Like a white rose cut and placed in a vase,
For her petals to wrinkle,
And fall off, away from home
A brown rot has stolen her face
And left her all alone

Don't they know that their beauty
Comes from the passing of seasons?
A butterfly was once a caterpillar.
A stem became a blossoming vine,
Which gave us many sweet flowers.

And while they all grow old and die come fall,
They will come back again next spring;
To take a moment and kill them then,
Is robbing you of the chance to see them again.
Don't you know? Don't you know? Won't you know?