Butterflies

Softness cradles the fire, yet the fire’s embers are licked upon with confusion. Every act is coated with gentleness, yet each stroke resembles ice, contrasting the fire’s nature, rapidly melting away. The resemblance mimics a moth beside the timid flames, carrying an approach that harms the fire without the intent to do so.

The assumed rights entwine with the unspoken wrongs, barricading each thought behind a prison that falls, observed, picked apart, riddled with shame, embarrassment and everything that consumes the surveilled building.

A prison that lacks necessities: a bed, stability and everything needed to attend to the mentally scarce facility. Yet, all four walls are cherished deeply, torn, scattered, yet filled with the achievements of the officer. An officer who chalks down their being, their achievements, their intent and everything applicable to themselves.

Yet, the building’s identity has been erased, only noted when it interlinks with the officer’s intent. The knowledge surrounding the building remains scarce, only researched when the officer’s nudged to question the building.

A beautiful building, not quite completed, due to the officer’s lack of questioning, scattering unfit furniture within the perceived blank canvas. Righteousness leads the officer, nourishing him with guarded resources, despite consuming the entirety of the prison’s facilities, mimicking a scorned jungle.

A jungle littered with ever so ghastly flames, claiming the colourful ambience of the jungle and spitting out a measly grey hue that resembles a stormy grey, unheard hurricane.

A hurricane tinted with debris that flocks towards them, dazzled with desirability, a loud beauty that never dissipates, but only grows suppressed through the intensity of its being.

The hurricane’s nature is never questioned, nor is the origin, nor is the vulnerability or beauty within the hurricane’s storm; it’s only linked back to the officer’s trials and tribulations, needs, wants and everything down to the bones.

“The officer expects to cradle the gentle butterfly within their nimble palm, whilst lacking the tools to knit together the butterflies’ wings.”

Even if the hurricane was converted into a gentle, teal butterfly, effortlessly roaming, the officer would still attach their means upon the butterfly, weighing down their wings instead of giving a gentle, eased flight.

Even with the butterfly’s wings torn and re-learnt flight, the officer would resurface, observing the butterfly’s flight with the aid of everyone but their own.

Yet, the officer expects to cradle the gentle butterfly within their nimble palm, observing and stripping apart the patterns that clue into the butterfly's vulnerable nature. To run their nimble fingers upon the torn wing, expecting a fruitful reaction.

To glance upon the butterflies' sheltered emotions, whilst lacking the tools to knit together the butterflies’ wings, whilst gifting the butterfly everything but nothing at the same time.

Foolishness coats the butterfly, yet the art of revealing your crumbled cards pains the butterfly further. But what’s there for the butterfly to lose? The ungiven aid? The ungifted nectar? The expectation to thrive without a boost? Or the ambiguous expectations?

What is there to conquer? When the jester’s hand has already been revealed?