Painted Butterflies

In this unclad chamber,
There lies a wall.
Where Intricate blueprints rest
To reave one’s mind.

Delineated, a man
Piously preaching profusely
To a blackberry bush.
Beside him a woman
Kissed by fire, eyes closed,
Finger gestured to an old oak,

That stood nearing the end.
Surrounded by a swarm of
Beautifully coloured butterflies,
That never seem serene.
But three large winged ones
Gaze upon the tempest
Perched on the tree’s appendage
Like seraphim, sentinels to Babel