I caught a butterfly today and held it in my hand
flutters of its wings warned me so still, to stand
Cupping it within my hands, I could barely steal a peek
and could not see its wonder, its color, its freedom
How can a butterfly be beautiful if it is not free?
Can love mean something if you choose not to give to me?
Can something be what it longs to be
if I dare to impose on it that which is me?
Can beauty live enslaved in want?
or color beam even when choked by dark?
Does the earth still spin if I hold my breath?
Or does beauty entice us in spite of ourselves?
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