Dead Butterflies

Dead butterflies, ancient and thin float
down from the sky. They flew
and now fall frozen, feathered ice that the wind
has sculpted into a new and unique form.
They weep, and drown in their own tears,
or those left by others.

They pile up on the floor.
Some nature’s magic makes them sparkle,
as they gently hold in their tears till morning.
Humanity hides in this cold, dark and silent night.
Their bodies pile high, in the cold of December.
Their reign will last merely hours, and we won’t remember.

Now there are many more. Too many to count,
more than all the people in all the cities.
An immense army of warriors, diving into the world… to die
Silent.
Upon the gravel and the grass,
They may find peace at last.

(This work is copyright(c) of the author, Chris Drinkall)