Where are all the butterflies?
Where have the flowers gone?
”They’re dead! They’re dead! ” I shout aloud,
And laugh in sore reply.
How can we ask of frilly things,
and beauty built with wings,
When in the heart of Tolíman,
San Lucas to the gringos,
Father Greg, a holy man, and saint-to-be has walked
On aching feet to reach the souls, the only blood left in
Our world that beats warm.
Beats true.
Beats red and not blue.
How can hearts made of tar
push red, red blood through our veins?
They don’t; it turns blue.
And we die.
I’ve checked: my blood is bluish red.
Am I dead?

Andrea Stuckey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-flowers-have-died/