White Butterflies

The snow was like miniature white butterflies
in a beautifully choreographed flutter.
Always vanishing too soon.
So we wish upon a cluster of winter stars,
that permeate the mental bars.
Beneath the glow of the ambiguous moon.
The despair of not knowing if another cherished
day will exist.
The very dark between stars is what despair
cannot resist.

The snow falls in a stark silent rapture
of every fallen dream the heart still yearns to capture.
The moon is the wolf's trusted guiding light.
While the rabbit's eyes were bright with fright.
Not all is seen as butterflies,
as we approach the path of our own demise.