Masses of butterflies, over her grave,

A rotting body, brims with rage.

Will they find her in time?

Will he let her leave?

No one knows, no one prays.

Flowers of every hue,

Riddled with pus and dew.

Eyes of sorrow, mind of glass,

Filled with nothingness, lungs of brass.

Daughters and wives, all in one,

Death and misery, a coffin full of nuns.

A mouth overflowing with nails,

Broken dreams, shattered wails.

Bleeding lips, stolen whispers,

Dirt under her skin, soulless blisters.

A heaving sigh, her last breath,

A melted candle, the angel of death.

Ashes and pain, tattered wings,

Screams of grief, no hope clings.

Darkness now lingers,

Over her grave.