When you touch a butterfly it loses power over its wings
You destroy it, make it static
The greatest insult comes from preventing movement
It can’t escape the surrounding wreckage
It’s trapped, prey to predators
Only knows rubble
And I wonder why,
If we know that we hurt the butterfly,
We’re tempted to touch its wings anyway.
This post is part of the A-Z Challenge. My theme is April Scribble, which includes microfiction, small vignettes, and poetry.
For more alphabetical goodness, click here.