Butterflies

Habits of none, used to a flatline Tainted clothes, old buildings Damp tunnel, no light Ataraxia, nothing changing Thousand corpses, lying dead Moving maggots, ripping flesh Turning life, upside down We are food for what we kill We crawling, spreading blood It is sacred, but not so low Here is no peace, here is no life Drink for health, we mean night All is flooded, so are hearts No butterflies in your stomach If you feel something moving Their corpses are being eaten