The Butterflies of It

What's left and gone, can still return.

For this, I desperately burn.

Something old to make new,

The very brightest of all hues.

It may fly far beyond,

Yet still land near.

Flying or sat.

Our eyes will always collide,

The butterflies will never hide.

The unraveled wings, once tucked away.

Always there.

Now at their width,

And now we can bare.

It may have been known as something else,

But butterflies can change.

That is our wealth.

Let us take what we can make.

And in the same world,

A new world we create.

Something old to make new,

Because we never had something quite this true.

It may fly, it may sit.

That's the butterflies of it.