The Butterfly and the Machine Gun

 

Moving gently between flowers and locations,

With seeming abandon and randomness,

I can detect no pattern of logic,

Or intention.

 

Yet, this one has a weapon,

Which seems to fill the room with noise and fire,

Spitting maliciously from the itchy, hair-trigger,

Of a mind moving at speed.

 

Ducking and diving now,

To avoid an “accidental” shooting,

A mind tries to reflect on why, while avoid certain doom,

In a simultaneous moment.

 

Such is wont of freewill when weaponized,

By the agent provocateur.

 

One the tirade is over,

A thankfulness fills the room,

To be followed by reflection,

On what just happened.

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