Butterfly Wings as pale and fragile as the new morning.

As the cold waxy moon.

As your thin, anxious face.

Butterfly wings twitching and moving, held in tight by your closed fist. Held in tight for protection but still


to get free, yearning for a taste of life and the embrace of the world in the clear blue sky.

Yet the harder it struggles, the stronger the grip

(The stronger it's contained)

Until all that's left of the butterfly wings is a fine white powder between your fingers.