It’s going to meet its maker
that insect on the wall.
I’ve tried my best to free it
but had no luck at all.
Perhaps it’s spent a half life
watching me from on high
while it should have been somewhere
under the darkened sky.
Wings folded as if waiting
perhaps exhausted now
its instincts for survival
no longer tell it how.
Oh little fragile being
that lives to find a mate
no more you’ll serve your destiny
out there to procreate.
Why should this little creature
affect me in this way?
Perhaps I see how precious
should be each passing day.
For what is knowledge pending
to that which now is known
that hidden revelation
a safe and certain home?
i bet you could write a poem about paint drying & it would still be amazing!
i’m captivate by your words right at this point in time
Hi,
Thanks for the kind words. I find I’m becoming increasingly sympathetic to insects that get trapped in the house, considering their short lives and their determination to get as much out of them as possible