A butterfly passes

me, caught in a draught,

helpless to control

the direction of its flight.

Light reflects off its wings, in flashes

of their violence,

trying to recover,

from the tail spin.

Days like these, I can’t help

but wonder, why

that butterfly didn’t merely

be taken over by the wind,

ease up and be consumed,

go wherever the wind desired.

Why did it fight the flight

path destined to it?

I sit back in reflection,

overcome, with thoughts of the butterfly

struggling in a battle it could never win,

sadness, pity, frustration,

yet overwhelmed with selfish joy,

that the butterfly did fight,

and struggled to a place where I could see.