The Butterfly

A skull in the sand
A human's, no less
So ugly, wretched
Vile, and grotesque

It reaks of death
And looks like it too
Cracked and dirty
With a less-than-favorable hue

A corner is blown off
It's gnarled and stained
He died in the war
His mangled skull is all that remains

The sight is sorrowful
A truely horrid thing
Yet a beautiful passing butterfly
Uses it to rest it's lovely wings

Something so delicate
And something so foul
What was once revolting
Becomes breathtaking now