A wounded ***** nestles in the arctic space,
an aspiring black widow with venom seeping from the sides.
Euphoric beats once played with a dopamine race,
The bandshell held a mosh pit of butterflies.

Beautifully crafted cocoons left from infatuation or lust,
the decreased caterpillars shriveled from insufficient trust.
Dismembered victims carried wings that once tickled the walls,
new echoes from a voice linger from the calls.

Warmth restores the moisture and growth,
the sporadic eggs represent a brand new oath.
The arctic space reflects light like the blazing sun,
the beating rhythm overrides what was done.