Butterfly's Midnight Dance Poem by Fletcher Wright

Beauty is true Betrayal.
The pretty fluttering bugs.
The way the move their wings,
so very Heavenly, slowly, Gracefully.
Gliding on the north wind's current.
They sit on you're finger, so gently they the sit.
They do not stir. They do not move.
They just look.
Look at people.
Look at what they have done to nature, Mother.
They see that you dislike the taste of discomfort.
They scorn you.
The all come down
Like a swam of raiding bullets,
Like a storm.
They eat.
The feast,
On you're dead decaying body.
The make the ground red.
They make the skys a coffee black.
They love Mother.
They love Father.
They love blood.
They loved you.
Betrayal is true Beauty.