Drowsy rosebuds dip their dainty
heads in perfect slumber
This vision of rapture has torn asunder
the placid image of false love
that once rode high on the waves of feeling
that, for you, are unheard of.

Butterflies wings tear through the hot,
muggy night of bitter scorn
and build fragile cocoons of faith
hoping to again change form.

Never suspecting upon emerge
fires of wickedness that wait to purge
all the sparkles from their starstruck eyes

Blinded and breathless they catapult
into still, stagnant waters of slaughtered hope
and drown on their own good intentions.