Torn (not quite poetry, not quite a prose)

We're not so different from butterflies I think.
We fly through life, fluttering in the breeze,

always goal oriented, searching for our purpose.
We sample the nectar from flower to flower
constantly searching for the right one,

always searching, never settling, 

for the breeze is strong and our wings are too brittle.
And sometimes we are battered.
But we're quite resilient, I think and we recover

from most of the injuries that affect us.
The small tears in the wing, what bit of scales that get scraped off,
but still we can fly, and so we keep on flying.
We cannot stop, for what is a butterfly that doesn't fly?
What is a human being that does not live out its existential purpose?
But I suppose sometimes the winds blow too strong
and our wings take one too many a beating
and I suppose there are some wounds that do not heal,

and that is when you cease to live, that is when you cease to be
you become a human without a being, a butter without a fly.
I've suffered my share of injuries, as have you
and I have temporarily lost flight, just like you
but one wing here and one wing there, between the two of us
we still can live, we still can fly.
And looking back on it now, I guess I realised;
oh, was I lucky... that when my wings were torn...
I had you to pick me up.