Subject to the glare.

In Eden the butterflies flew free

Carrying the pollen from flower to flower

Then the gardeners laid down their respect and exchanged their trowels for guns

And science intervened and flexing its arms of power, caught the colour and subjected it to the glare.

The glass cup was turned over.

The butterflies inside, unable to hide,

Flutter and flurry in the bright artificial light.

Too tired of flying to avoid its murderous glare,

Running into its sun.

Let them go.

Do not subject them to analysis

Let them be…

The butterflies that once flew free.

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