The Butterfly Box (12th Feb 2017)

There was a butterfly,  
Who lived in a large, square box,
With four tall glass walls,  
And a glass ceiling with a lock.  
 
Many observed his beauty,  
But could never get too close,  
There was only his master,  
The one whom loved him most.  
 
Indeed his spirt was astounding,  
He was so perfect and so alive,  
Until his wings began to fade,  
For he was struggling to thrive.
 
He tried to tell of his sadness,  
Showing his colours at their best,  
It was all to no avail,
Soon he grew depressed.
 
He fluttered his blue wings,  
Begging to fly into the night,  
The master simply turned the key,  
And wouldn't let him out of sight.
 
The pleas that he would return,  
Still did him no good,  
The box was sealed tighter,  
As tightly as it would.
 
In the fear of losing him,  
There had been a huge mistake,  
No crack nor any airholes,  
Allowed a breath for him to take.
 
He was running out of air,  
He could not lift his wings to fly,  
In the end without his freedom,  
He simply suffocated and died.
 
Now nobody dare say a word,  
But in the kitchen beside the clock,  
Under a large, big, black sheet,  
Sits an empty butterfly box.