Butterflies in Sonnet
They hovered near like monarchs in the night;
invading vain and raging ruminations
with lyric sound of soft and gentle flight.
To walk away, solitude's intention;
their lovely voices bid me 'Stay. Listen.'
They formed a semi-circle and they sang!
They sang so pure of love endured, I listened!
Stood rapt with awe and trembling, my heart rang!
with bitter tears unwept and raging pain . . .
Christine was but nineteen, she sings no more.
There is this heinous Art that I deplore.
It erupts in violent, 'random' acts of Madness.
One cannot, as an Artist, shut the door,
and end subversion of our Art, to War.
© D. Winter