The Butterfly Blade

In the dying field where no wind breathes, Whispers bleed through ghostly sheaves. The harvest moon forgets your name— He carves it slow, he plays no game. A flick of steel, a dancer’s grace, No shadow moves, yet leaves no trace. Your sins unwind around his hand, A puppet pulled from silent land. No scythe, no chain, no storm, no flame— He cuts with style, he cuts with shame. A click, a flash, a blade that sings— Your final thought has butterfly wings. He is the cold between your cries, The grin behind forgotten skies. He is the blade you never see— The death that comes with subtle glee. The Butterfly Blade… You never prayed. He danced, you stayed. Now rot, unmade. His robe is stitched with ancient vows, Of kings and beasts and burnt-out towns. Each soul a thread he twists and folds, Their screams are songs he softly holds. You saw the light? He saw your pride. You begged for fate? He let you slide. Now on his list you’re inked in black, He swings the knife—no going back. In the fields, where the lost hearts crawl, I heard the click, I felt the fall… A smile sharp as winter’s breath, He whispered, “Darling, welcome death.” He is the mask behind your fate, The hand that knocks when it’s too late. He is the blade you thought was gone— The end that laughs, then carries on. The Butterfly Blade… Your shadow fades. He danced. You stayed. Now burn, betrayed. “One name. One cut. One step. You’re mine…”