Penultimate Sky

What is life? but a clutching for dear life to a cotton ball dipped in sweet nectar a wounded butterfly grasps, finally able to drink his measure sugar rushing to it's wings, it looks somehow stronger, prouder ready to face it's brief existance, for whatever it may be worth for what is a butterflys life if not soaring through a penultimate sky, admired by all, propagating, migrating part of a long chain of successions toward the North, and once again returning for what purpose, only it's creator knows perhaps only to lift the spirits of it's beholder. Does a butterfly have to soar and flutter to be part of life's penultimate cycle even if struggling to pull itself to the highest branch, and gaze upon the world, to which it emerged?