All carefully cut squares, beside him they lie.
Held one, and folded it a couple of times, wings.

In front of him, butterflies waiting to be released.
The one he once held, his finger dripping, flies away.

The crafter learns his works will slash his flesh.
A delicate art, a broken artist, and an unlikely weapon.

They can never see the beauty that drives them around.
Fluttering sounds, pollination, art to the human eye.

Slaves to the cycle of life, a never-ending performance.
Gifting their collection of travel wherever they land.

The mark of a craftsman splattering their allure.
Spreading his singed art far and wide, still unnoticed.

You guessed it, this isn't about him or his crafts.

© yudia