Like Little Blue Butterflies

A boy no older than
the age of eight pulled
on his father's long, wrinkled sleeves:
"Daddy, daddy, what do angels
look like?"

Father dearest looked down
at him and pulled his son
up onto his lap.
He smiled and said,

"They look like little blue butterflies."

Now the boy is no older than
the age of twelve, and he follows
the butterflies
everywhere, anywhere, always and always.
Never has he seen those of blue.

His peers and his teachers watch and
no, no, no, they fail to learn.
"What are you doing? Stop that!"

And he looks up with crinkled eyes,
shakes his head,
"No. I'm looking for angels; I'm searching for
little blue butterflies."

The boy has grown, donning a cap
and gown as he stands before his class.
He scans the crowd and the horizon
and his speech, but still he sees none.

He ties his words up in a nice blue bow:
"The way to success and
the path to happiness are not
one in the same. Success
is filled with people; joy with
little blue butterflies."

The boy is no longer a boy,
but a fully grown man.
He's lost his hair, his muscles, his eyesight;
dying, weak, gone.

He rarely sleeps, mumbling about
butterflies and angels and "Daddy, daddy,
can I ask you something?"

Daddy's been dead for years.

And the boy-man opens his eyes one day
and smiles.
Before him are little blue butterflies.

"I found you at las-"

"Take my hand, child."

And the boy-man was gone in
a swarm of
little blue butterflies.