Prismatic wings flap through the garden of bloom.
Hunger slurps the nectar, till the sky turned gloom.
But the salivating hands inch closer.
For the pretty wings to slaughter.
But pity, their doom lurks.
And the enticing hue smirks.
To reveal the stinger of doom.
And sink in the poison for tomb.

For she is a wasp in disguise of a butterfly.
Her nectar stings harder than venom.