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 from the belly of a sullen sky.

Two souls, one from a stalwart man and another from a wee flower,

joined together in a timeless fragment of eternity, now forever lost.