Grave of butterfly.
Falling like petals in the sky.
Don't you know?
How far he'll go?
Grave of cherry blossom.
You say, how loathsome.
Acting like it's, not your damn problem.
Funeral, so gruesome.
Wicked man, killing so often.
"Leave him dear," I caution.
Though none, care.
When compared to his, words that are rosen.
Compared, to his heart that's frozen.
Bitterfly, they come to join you.