Dark clouds congregate across the sky

Of crystal blue, where a fragile butterfly

Attempts to soar high with golden wings

For vain hope, swirling and flitting in the wind.

Above the clouds twenty sheep solemnly stand,

Proud their mien, regal even, like the ministers

Heralding demise, those from that mysterious land

Of decay and despair, tolling the bells of disaster.

The sound is slow and heavy, pulsating like heartbeats

Which blindly run through the threads of creation

And end with a knit of mighty necessity, leaving

Visages pale, wings broken and hearts drown in emotion.

The faerie butterfly, beholding the upcoming abyss,

Calmly accepts her destiny, and begins to dream

The sweetest dream she could ever conceive,

A dream of blooming flowers dancing,

Of music flowing, infants smiling,