The putrefy butterfly

I painted a portrait for you with a bile dipped brush,
While you were busy decomposing the music of your life,
On your knees sobbing pathetically to the seas that roared like thunder in return,
So droaned, groaned the sound of you not keeping well, no not well at all,
I smile, false smile, as it is beating in my mind that I could not infect your reason,
You seeped, poisoned breath, sigh,
Creepers pathed you in their knotted entrails,
Quiet for now, suffocating roots and spines wrapped around your jugular,
Shhhhh quiet now,
buried but not dead,
no sleeping in this head.