the glass cage

the butterfly is flying, its wings beating against the hard, solid glass.
there is no escape. there is only the glass cage which encases it and in which its feeble wingflaps slowly come to rest.
it perceives the sun only as a distant ray, and the green of the trees and scarlet flowers mock it. all it knows is the clear prism of light which heightens, deepens the colours it sees but can never draw close to.
slower and slower its movements as it begins to feel life slowly seep out of its body.

perhaps it should fight against the lethargy that signals impending death.
perhaps it should continue flying.
perhaps it should go on living.

then someone unscrews the top of the jar. the butterfly is out. a single wingflap as it touches the wind it had never felt before. a single wingflap. the final wingflap.

there was never a choice, could it have come to value what it was given? when the fates have given unto it a beginning and an ending, a loop of despair and destruction.