Thousands of dead butterflies
littering the room;
Lifeless bodies and pale wings
painting dark and gloom.
Paper wings are ripped off
and faces shredded to bits.
As I look at my empty hands, I wonder Who did this?

Stone cold eyes are staring me down
eyeing every move
that I make through the corpses
filling up the room.
At every corner and every footstep
there always seems to be
A little, lonely butterfly forever haunting me.

I wade through shells of forgotten lives
Too many deaths to count
A sinking feeling inside my stomach
Heart falling to the ground.
My mind unlocks from blurry haze
And panic settles in
A wave of realisation: Their blood is on my skin.

Nervous sweat and shaking hands
I turn towards the door
But windows, frames and shutters are
closed in by concrete walls.
Quick beating heart; feeling afraid
A funeral on the floor
An echo of a sound I am
alone inside the morgue.