In my hands

In my hands,
I hold a butterfly
a beautiful creature
whom I’d captur’d

Her wings spread
to escape she tried
but my hands wound
tightly around

Seconds, minutes, hours
still in there
now with feeble efforts
she tries escape

My hands control
her very life;
fate of God’s creation
in my hands.

I open my hands
and out flies
not a butterfly
but golden specks.

I also write at Poshin's World.