I often find my epiphany
As it flutters its way on by,
Never enough time to examine its beauty
But long enough to always try.
If I cannot see where it went,
Nor from whence it came,
How will I know the time it spent,
To make me never the same?
Was its intention as fleeting as its visit?
Was its motive just to change?
Was its value more than intrinsic?
Was its goal simply to rearrange?
I tire myself with questions,
I bore myself with doubt.
So fly on by, you slick butterfly,
Your epiphany I’m better without.