The soft flapping of the fragile wings,

As the butterfly hovers over flowers,

Scares me more than most things.

What keeps me up late at odd hours,

The incessant noise coming to an end,

As it’s overcome by other powers.

The flimsy membranes sure do bend,

With a careless whisk of a hand,

It lies broken and unable to fend.

In shock, the person does stand,

As the creature falls to pieces.

For the act wasn’t cruel; unplanned.

It’s why my anxiety increases,

Every time I spot a butterfly.

Hanging on a thin thread my peace is.

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Note: The above is a terza rima poem, following the rhyme scheme ABA BCB CDC DED