The Black Butterfly

The Black Butterfly

Born from shadows, stitched in night,

A whispered ghost in pale moonlight.

Wings of ink, they drip and weep,

Carrying secrets the dark must keep.

No golden dawn, no flower’s grace,

Only silence, cold embrace.

A fluttered curse, a lover’s sigh,

A fleeting wish before goodbye.

It dances where the lost ones tread,

A haunting shape, a word unsaid.

The black butterfly, a soul set free,

A fragile omen—death’s poetry.

A fluttered hush, a breath undone,

The black butterfly blocks out the sun.

No morning comes, no stars will guide,

Only the hush of the other side.

It lands so soft on weary skin,

A quiet warning, death creeping in.

One last beat, one final sigh,

Then off it goes—to watch you die.

The black butterfly drifts through the void,

Silent as graves, where dreams are destroyed.

Each fragile wing, a funeral prayer,

Carrying echoes of souls laid bare.

No flowers bloom where its shadow falls,

Only whispers in empty halls.

A deathly touch, then dust and bone,

A final flight—then all is gone.

From darkness born, to darkness flies,

A silent prayer, a mourner’s cries.

No footprints left, no trace remains,

Just empty air—and whispered names.