No one knows who they are, why they come
Dressed all in black, their strange faces covered, the misfit mourners stand graveside among families of the deceased.
No one knows that, at night, they return.
They dig, tossing aside the dirt, undoing the hard work of the gravedigger.
No one sees them perch on the edge of the open coffin,
talons sharp, proboscises extended.
They are dark butterflies feasting on what remains, relishing the taste.
No one hears the echoes of their whooping as they flee into the night, twirling all the way.
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