Butterflying

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The butterfly rested on the beige wall, gingerly.

Its residence was doused in white fumes.

It was a holocaust.

It flew, zig-zag, sinking and floating, as though drunk.

A twinge in his stomach.

A pin prick.

Closed his eyes, he did,

to its silent cries.

He returned : lines, lines, lines of words.

The words cascaded from the pages, 

indicting.

In a moment of tenderness, he approached the butterfly with a big plastic bag, trapped it and proceeded to release it in a patch of woodlands further away from humanity. He should be studying, he knew. Exams would be coming soon. And he was poorly prepared. No, he shouldn't be doing this.

But, it's okay, he thought, the butterfly is beautiful.

Among the foliage,

the dazed insect fluttered.

A stab of horror.

A fruit bat.

Doesn't bats prey on insects?

The drunken butterfly -

about to die?

The butterfly fluttered wildly. It landed safely on the dark emerald leaves of a fern and ceased to move. Safe, as least for now, his mind wandered. Safe from white smoke and black bats. A brittle smile, he smiled that brittle smile.

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