A Gnat

There was something about this place-- so terribly unknown, and though I fancied its mystery I felt so alone, an old abandoned dock, a shady-- house on a hill-- the same wardrobe of twill, in this city of stone. All the years, misplaced and dreary-- I notice the gnat, fluttering neath the window pane; it's wings timid and flat, how lucky that creature would-- someday be-- so determined and free, a silencing splat. Lovely, I thought, this quiet scene-- my flattened friend, two legs still manoeuvring aimlessly, the others embrace the end-- how simple and fragile--a finespun dust-- yet you I trust, but will not defend. Four glass panels, light passing through-- a heavenly invite, your ticket stamped for an eternity, why continue on to fight? why attempt to scramble--around and about-- for a God without, not an angel in sight. I am your vigil, your watching eye-- I will, stand here and watch you die, I count the minutes--till sweet release-- the sign from whom shall grant you peace, yet no soul beckons, or heeds the call--     no one my friend, no one at all.