Butterflies wither while slowly burning,
in searing acidic bile and churning,
the absence kills this heart left learning,
alas no fonder be the truth returning,
stilled blood seethes with time adjourning,
even now least not he hold his earning,
that he may choose life still, a hero the gates make habits spurning,
again i ask- alas no fonder be the truth returning...only a violence that never sleeps.