Beneath the soft white pillow,
The glossy cover turned,
The creatures lie there waiting,
For the rains of night return.
There flutters pinned and helpless,
The black and feathered bird.
Too small to be a sparrow,
Too quiet to be heard.
The butterflies are tearless;
Just the lashes' soft dark dress,
Until the rotting bandage,
drips down the pillow's flesh.
And all the cares of day,
Are slowly drained away
She sleeps
She sleeps
She sleeps
On black and broken
Butterlfy wings.
