by Ethel Mortenson Davis
An old man leaves
a federal prison,
free at last.
He has spent
most of his life
behind bars
for a crime
he did not commit.
The air is as sweet
as any he has known.
He steps into freedom.
This morning
a white butterfly,
with black accents
I could not identify,
was caught in a spider’s web.
I pulled him from
his bondage.
He was still alive
and eager to fly.
He flew into the forest
rich with oxygen,
a freedom he had thought
would never again be his.
And there in the sundrenched trees
he became giddy
on pulsing, cooling waves of air.
fourwindowspress 
I like the story you tell here Ethel, but equally I appreciate the cadences: the lines seem to rise and fall, rhythmically.
Love the comparison here Ethel. And as John said above, the cadence too x
If only it were possible to free every being wrongly entangled. If only we had the capacity to always discern what was right and what was wrong.