Beginning from the friendly confines of the living room,
But having never had the privilege of resting comfortably
With it’s feet up on a plush Turkish ottoman,
For even a second.
Since it sprung fourth from the egg,
Accompanied by the same soundtrack
That begins most horror movies,
A life consisting with of wandering,
Feats such as
Having once traversed the fibrous area rug,
Only antennae to guide it,
(While the radio searched hopelessly for a signal)
Like a fleeing gazelle,
From any number of carnivores,
Barely being able to see above the tall grass of the savanna.
Except there was no chase, in this instance.
Only the insect and an area rug whose pile,
Has (Had?) a tendency to imitate tall grass.
The adventurous insect could
Easily scale counter-tops
To retrieve meager scraps.
Were among the grand prizes.
Consolation was of no importance.
Still, enjoying the paltry portions, watching rockets shoot past the moon,
Landing in the nosebleeds,
Among the tombstones.
Beholding this entire extravaganza all from a marble ledge,
Was a ride like no other.
Finally in the front row now,
Seated like royalty this once.
Like a season ticket holder this once.
A seat of commerce.
This unintentional balcony,
Cold to the touch
But not quite a frozen lake yet, though.
Just above the sink where the faucet
Has nothing else better to do but hang its head.
Over the course of time,
While still enduring many hardships,
Like not having the capabilities to push any of the buttons on the remote
When the television was mistakenly left on
At a volume exceeding skyscrapers.
Or when careless brooms swept across the floor,
Kicking up particles and participles alike,
When, one day among the chaos,
The aging insect traveled outside through
An unseen crack in the foundation,
(That years later could lead to depreciation)
For a simple breath of fresh air,
But in this not-so-simple situation
The tiny insect,
Unexpectedly grew weak,
From exposure to blinding sun-light
Or the swirling uncertainty
In this unfamiliar environment,
Not being able to tell the difference between gargoyles
And perched Birds…
Or perhaps it was that time
A time that supersedes cliches
While dancing in circles,
This is the time that has found it’s niche, and plans to stay.
Found it’s calling, like the blaring of trumpets.
Dust from the wings of sleeping moths drops down,
Covering the battlefield .
Blessing this space like no other.
Falling like artillery but
Not making a sound.
A soft breeze blows the clovers nearby,
All enduring with three leaves, as clovers should.
Drawing lines in the sand,
Forcing curious crop-circles to scratch their chins.
& the aforementioned insect is still alone,
(The only audience watching through a crack in the door)
(The insects only hope watching through a crack in the door)
With the closing of that door,
(So not to let the cold air, or inside voices out)
And the turning the of the deadbolt,
The slow turning of the screw,
The lions were upon him,
Roaring and slashing,
Told best when the camera finally panned away,
Leaving only shadows to convey the carnage.
No eulogies told from
Or dedications inscribed in
To remember the now sleeping insect,
Voyeurism was the only prevailing truth that day,
Absolution was heavier than cannonballs that day.