Black Butterflies

"It's time... It's time!"
Your whispers moan.
The night is setting on us.
The sun's first tendril
Is ladshing my bare back.
And I can feel it burning
A ridge in my skin, a mark, a trauma
That will stay with me as a reminder
Of the the pain that is brought and begins
To mirror, to echo, to reflect and refract
Through the dew drops on each blade of grass
That is decorating such as this, this grey morning.
"My heart is hurting..."
My whimper murmurs
As the anxiety builds in my chest
And makes me cringe, makes me wince, makes me cry.
The color in my world begins to fade
To the ominous shades of grey that, once,
You obliterated, disappated, disintegrated
But morning is fast approaching
It's rider golden, but its horse a rotten black
It brings the death, brings the black, brings the harrowing
Of how two lovers torn apart on a bright morning
Begin to die in a fit of desperate passion known
Only to the long suffering children of Aristophanes.
Morning keeps coming...
Morning still comes...
The golden rider on his black horse
Breathes his kind of consuming death on these two sacred lovers
And watches the butterflies of anxiety, of fear
Turn black in the stomach, and die alongside the soul stretched
Between two lovers, torn apart, on a sunny black morning
(The gods must have known they had blood on their hands...)

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