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,

&

Pandering

&

Scavenging.

Feats such as

Having once  traversed the fibrous area rug,

Without eyesight,

&

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

…Mountaintops

…Mountaintops

To retrieve meager scraps.

Minor offerings,

&

Complete suffering

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.

And subsequently,

And eventually,

And blindly,

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

For hours

Four hours

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 grammar

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,

Perhaps

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

Temporary podiums,

To temporal congratulations,

Congregations

Or dedications inscribed in

Marble-laden mausoleums

To remember the now sleeping insect,

Voyeurism was the only prevailing truth that day,

Absolution was heavier than cannonballs that day.