Butterflies. (Poem)

Butterflies hitting windshields in the fast lane,
On the freeway, with my past slain under tiers,
The others die in the grills, leaving a last stain.
This is why my pain is higher.

Travel to and fro your hidden past,
I cant keep up with dramatic circles,
I cant amount to your smitten mast.
As if the blue shy had hidden purples.

The sun seems high in the sky, 12 noon,
But the moons out in the opposite direction,
The truth must had come to the light too soon.
Too fast for creating incidental correction.

The wind cant blow without temperature fluctuations,
Terminal illness for growing situations,
My anger ceases, allowing me to let go of pain.
The others die leaving a last stain in variations.