I run through the dense, green pine trees,
Feel the pattern of forest floor beneath my feet.
I gleefully fall back into a pile of fallen autumn leaves,
My final resting place.

I am a Birdwing butterfly.
I slowly flutter my distinctly colorful wings,
The rush of wind gliding along my enormous wingspan.
I steadily soar through the air, landing on a sturdy branch,
My final resting place.

I am a young woman.
I jog through the city--a concrete jungle,
Where once the plentiful, nature-made jungle stood.
I look up at the skyscrapers and sit down on a slab of pavement,
My final resting place.

I am an endangered butterfly.
I rarely take flight, weakened and afraid,
That the place I once called home has been covered in plaster.
I flutter through busy, bustling streets and land on a metal garbage can,
My final resting place.

I am an elderly woman.
I sit at my window and look out at the endless array of buildings,
My final moments spent thinking of the nature that once stood in their place.
I feel a heavy hand pull me away from the glass and guide me to my cold, hard bed,
My final resting place.

I am an extinct butterfly.
I am unable to use the gift God gave me,
The last of my kind, I sit and I wait to be no longer.
I lie, covered by ash and dust, as time slips away and I fall into nothing,
My final resting place.