Dear black butterfly
In the middle of the night...
who's soul will you take with you this time?
I dream of my father's grave...
And mine, freshly dug next to his,
wind holding the nostalgic smell of thyme.
You slip away from my hands...
leaving me a message,
that I prayed I shouldn't recieve
I don't know why you're here...
but, if killing me is your intention,
I swear on my life, I won't decieve.
You snatched my...