Whispers in the Dark
In their graves,
The evil lies,
They have a privilege I shall never receive when I die.
Beauty on monstrosity.
I’ve never noticed till this day.
I envy these Nazis
I wish it were me
Then I bite my tongue.
I see a pair of fluttering wings.
Bright colors flow in streams.
In this place of darkness and death,
Butterflies make use of their breath.
They whisper to Nazis.
Passing messages like a young child would do,
When wanting to speak to a friend across the room at school.
The light of the sun is drawn to these graves,
The rays wash over in large waves.
It’s a gruesome sight,
Yet brings a smile to your face.
It’s a dark gray hole,
Yet you see beauty and grace.
Yet you want to honor their memory.
The sun now sets.
Chipper yellow turns to crimson red.
Butterflies wings became the color of blood from the dead.
Even in the dark,
From flower to flower they fly.
Even when the sun goes down,
There is still whispers in the dark.