Scarred by butterflies
Adrift from their garden home,
Wounded of iron and blood
In the battle, weary by fight,
On the edge of flight
A struggle without its might.
What may help
Before the fire of fighting men?
My pen is sharpened
The ink has edged an outline,
Battered and splattered upon the paper,
A map into the subconscious
Bites of the hand that feeds it. 
I wait no longer
For the place to mend the wounds—
Drugs, medicines, herbs—and what of it?
The contest starts at midnight.