The Warrior and the Butterfly
Cornered by warfare and bloodshed all around him, a warrior caught between the heaving and bucketing of cringing and groaning, the ooze of anger and the whispers of bitter sorrow, in death troes, a butterfly fluttered by, dainty and oblivious of pain and horror. Gently it rests its fragile body in the heart of a flower, that survived the ploughed shattered earth, sickenly drunken by wafts of spilled blood, the pungent acidity of brooding metal shells and organic débris . There it quells his thirst, sipping the rich nectar and flies off again; the warrior watched closely and moved unto the flower, snaps it from the stem to smell that dazzling sweet flagrance. At the moment of plucking, a bullitt seals his fate, the pump of life throbs towards a stop. Another carcass soon nourishing the roving insects and birds. The fragrance lingered on above the purulence of the decaying bodies for a while, before it melted away in the blustering rain that weeps down