dead dead dead
all dead
stale is the vibe
rot is the mood
disorientation of the evening
frustration of the night.

once in a while
on the rock-bed of ashes
a little butterfly 
carefully flutters its wings
among the dead
dried fallen leaves
and it peeps its head out
oh is it safe to fly?
and the leaves ruffle
as the delicate bug
lifts off the ground 

I immediately pull out
the baseball bat
even though my weak
hands should do it
and I smack that ugly bug
to the ground
and beat it and beat it
and beat it
and beat it
until it disappears
I shall beat it.

let them know 
that despair has arrived.
him whose sweet aroma only 
had come before
has now arrived by himself. 
and he will be my friend 
forever
until my gentle One 
Who sits by the river 
with teary eyes
visits both me and despair
with His torch.