A Butterfly Wing

I wrote this poem when my brother showed me a butterfly wing that he had found somewhere. It was the most beautiful thing, all green and black. He kept talking to me about where he had found it and all I could think of was this poem in my head. 


My brother found a butterfly wing
in the park, last Sunday.
He said,
that the butterfly was dead
and its wing was on the ground.
Just fallen.
Like the butterfly left a part
of its beauty
for someone else after it's gone.

I've heard it said
that the patterns on a butterfly wing
tell a story
What part of the story is this?
Maybe it's a 'once upon a time'
talking of a faraway land.
Or a 'happily ever after'
where the princess is rescued and everyone is joyful.
Or the bewildering middle
where things keep happening
 and no-one knows quite what to do.

The wing is drying up and curling
Does this mean a twist in the tale?
Is the land not so faraway after all
but simply our land in the future?
Does the princess rescue herself
and become a serial killer
after all that psychological trauma?

I wonder.

Stories.
The world's made up of 'em.
Like one big butterfly wing.
A kaleidoscope.
Constantly moving,
Changing,
People living.
Every day.
Writing new stories.
A kaleidoscope still.
Made of the same shards of glass
The same essence in each story

I blow the butterfly wing
off my brother's thumb
It floats aways in the wind
I tell him
Someone else wants to hear that story.