Work Text:
The butter was like silk,
flowing through the ethers like milk.
Holding a piece from the past,
as that breath was his last.
He hoped for no pain,
there was never any gain.
And as the world turned,
nobody could be mourned.
He hoped he was somebody,
for whom he was loved.
There was no place for anybody,
to say he was robbed.
The world kept going,
the leaves were offering.
A place in heaven,
where the butterflies twirled.