the butterfly and the wasp

I End this to begin
the toxin,was the ripple of oxygen in her skin.
Chemicals that pierced her circuitry
the day i'd pierced my lips,for all to see.
The ageing Russian doll
Vice had blessed her fall
was there irony,in the rain that night?
in many a time,i'd call,an aching soul
for help in the night.

She'd been repressed by years
of her own inner fears.
i'd always dry her tears.

usually what would bewitch the eyes
in such a desolate place..
would be flowers,nay it was the look on the butterfly's face.
a mellow smile,on twilight twitched lips
to stand on high ground,she could pull the sky down.

her nocturnal flesh slumbers
the living,believe
anchored,in the dead earth,for an eternity for her to breathe
ashen she was lowered into soiled ground
this is how wasp drown.