Beneath the cloak of rules we wear,
Morality’s thread runs fragile, bare.
A hero’s mask, a villain’s sneer,
Shaped not by truth, but human fear.

Crush the cockroach, bold and swift,
And you’re a savior in the rift—
For filth has met its righteous end,
Society calls you their friend.

But dare to touch a butterfly,
Its wings a brush against the sky,
And you’re condemned with scornful eye,
A villain in their sacred lie.

What draws the line, what makes the claim?
Is there no heart beneath this game?
Is one life less, another...