One Hundred Years

Butterflies float into my room
In fatal, terminal yellow,
Blossoming with weary gloom,
Abandoning the sludge below.
Asphyxiated by the riotous chill;
Like the returning foetus
With an impulse to kill,
Dragging through the dew beneath us.

My heart's anatomy erupts
In the morning's bleak beams;
Choking and spluttering
Over last night's dreams.
If this rabble resists my death,
Darling - please call when I catch my breath?