Butterflies avail tight lids
Bliss, for the life of we, trinity, take flight!
Flaps, nor honorary than the film that corners street jungles,
From flat to round.
Sanguinity evades these creatures from plastic wraps.
Milky stars never at hand,
Human, to know your crown.
Know, that whoever should tame the beast in red waters,
Is surely one whom had the boiling rage from dolt down under.
Sanded glass for quality of mosaic exaggeration,
Hallowing ‘round cathedral halls.
Justly a being, nothing grandeur.
Decrepit, being, nothing more.
Martyring divine truths,
Living not for selfish loot,
Yet then again and brought up,
More human than we.
Ironical for all costs,
And yet, not delivered.
Stood praised, for not, ill intentions,
Lay humbly awake from the news.
Wishing for masses to end the groping of their garbs,
Chivalrously scream “I am not the light! Mortal, by then, with high chosen notions!”
And although professing life’s reasons,
Humans were hunted to bloody nightlife.
Tested to be killed, and faithfully so.