Delicate wings, a fragile display,

Patterns of beauty in colors that play.

Each curve, each vein, a tale untold,

A story etched in crimson and gold.

Some are bold, with jagged lines,

A clash of shades, where chaos shines.

Like lovers who fight, yet cannot part,

Their discord the rhythm of one wild heart.

Others are soft, in hues that blend,

A quiet harmony, no need to pretend.

Like friendships that grow in the still of time,

Unspoken bonds, a subtle rhyme.

There are wings with eyes that stare,

Watching the world with a guarded flair.

Like secrets kept, or wounds that hide,

Layers of truth on the shadowed side.

And then, the broken wings, so torn,

Yet fluttering still, though bruised and worn.

Like hearts that mend after love has fled,

Finding strength where pain once bled.

Butterfly wings, so fleeting, so vast,

Mirror the ties that hold us fast.

Each pattern unique, a fleeting art,

Reflecting the chaos and calm of the heart.