Oh! To Be A Butterfly

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On A Place Of Skulls.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

Guarded Within The Old Red Wall's Embrace, Marshalled Like Soldiers In Gay Company, The Tulips Stand Arrayed. Here Infantry Wheels Out Into The Sunlight.