When the black butterflies come
with their razor wings that make you bleed,
and they darken the horizon as far as eye can see,
(And the black butterflies come,
with their razor wings that scratch and screech
on the chalkboard of your heart, to start to suck the nectar out…)
You remember the dark night
the words on the pages came to life,
how the written story started coming true.
You recall the curve ball, then the full arc,
the empty tomb
sealing the happy ending waiting
to be raised to life too.