My cat pawed at the door, begging me to let her out.
I felt lazy, so I left it open,
even after she took her royal time waltzing out.
I wasn't going to stand there like a sentinel
waiting for the Queen of England to pass by.
A moth fluttered in the dirty blue den,
and bumbled about my lights.
Off if flitted from the illuminated flower heads,
as though the mechanical dust would supplement
it's pollen intake. Poor thing would die soon,
trapped by these plaster walls, worse than prison bars
where at least a small moth could fly in and out.
The windows make a cruel taunt of freedom, but offer none.
Keep drifting little moth.
At least this way, you will feel purpose in life.
No comments:
Post a Comment