BUTTERFLY
It just sat there, helpless. The gentle breeze buffeting its wings and sending it aflutter in the shaggy, waving grass.
I watched as the beautiful insect slowly crawled back and forth, its immaculately painted wings rendered useless. What would it be like to be so stuck, having the tools to send you towards the heavens, yet unable to use them?
It was a sad sight, a tragedy almost. If I was graced with wings I would soar as high as the winds would take me, reaching ever higher.
I would surpass the heights of Icarus himself.
I would bounce through the clouds and dance with the angels I'd given the chance.
I would constantly strive for greater heights, spiraling ever upward until the world and all it's problems was but a specking the distance, a softly glowing orb that blended in with those that surrounds it.
And yet this tiny, fragile creature is unable to do what it was gifted to do upon birth. It flounders in the shag carpet of this lawn unable to flee.
Perhaps it years for the warm embrace of it's transformative cocoon and the soft tickle of the grass on it's wings is what keeps it here on terra firma.
I can think of no other reason why it would not flap those wings and take to the clear blue skies.
I certainly would.
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