Butterfly

I am like  a butterfly.
Feelings, fragile as its wings.
Fluttering from a friend to other as it does from a flower to other.


But deeply coloured.
My conscience as well as the outer conduct.
Coloured with masks of formality, ethics, morals.
But just a child within.


Colours of flowers and the universe around me ...all form the integral part of me. 
Wherever I go.
But there's just a small difference, it ceases to be a part of me.


The tiny tentacles touching the nectar are so a part of me.
But the sweetness in me is always unseen.


I am not being pessimist, nor am I complaining.
I am but a butterfly...
Fluttering, not flattering..., colouring the gardens and then giving off all the colour to what touches me.
I come out of the cocoon to share the pocketful of sunshine in me.
But I guess no one has time.
Everyone is so busy, running after the hawks and eagles; and shrieking on seeing snakes and lizards.
The butterfly ends up coming under the wheel...
Yet colouring brightly the wheel that crushes it.
Gives off its colour, but not its cause... to spread happiness and love.
It again reincarnates.
Again and again.