Follow the Butterflies

This is a poemory (it's like a poem but also a story but really, probably just a poem) in response to the prompt "But that was back when I gave a damn."

I used to smite.
I smote frequently, sent floods--
plagues and such.

I started Hell as a sort of
Retirement home for misguided souls,
a Landfill for sin.
And I laid out commandments--
corporate policy, if you will--
if you free will, am I right?
I am.
Always.

Also there was planning, lots of that
I plotted the ways of the world over
centuries, continents, conditions
unimaginably bleak and brilliant;
and I remembered them all without writing them down
because Christ, did people try to dig up spoilers.
And the fanfiction-- but I digress.

I had a son. I had and sacrificed a son
--my only son
and no daughters, either, because
"Our Father" and all that
is a metaphor--
I flung my son into his plot twist unarmed
and watched him be torn apart.

I did that. All that.

But that was back when I gave a damn.

Now I tinker
with the beautiful things:
butterflies, flowers, waterfalls.
I follow the butterflies from blossom to bright blossom
and bask in the Light
and think, God, this is the life.