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The Bug Collector

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The Bug Collector

A half-moon wind caresses naked skin
as a whispered prayer takes flight
Love me well when you dream tonight
Moonlight hosts a symphony opera
with natures orchestral might
Insecta songs they sing , for you
and friends in your care, I in theirs
At these unholy hours
thoughts prove masochistic
Wise counsel naught but acoustic
Un- remittance rends and rips
A lover’s melancholy grips in violent tics
Unpleasant distance will cause regret
For in passions sad neglect
lust and jealousy are bred
Thence in stealth their war is waged
through empty fortresses, razed
where loves light hath fled
but for one last cry distressed
Alas, with deeds time hath cheated
surrendered prayers gone unheeded
Lay thee abed, in privacy to wed
and weep alone instead
for those whom companionship
hath left for dead
As mounted specimens in camphor beds
Insecta songs they sang to deafness
with only a half-moon wind as witness.

Copyright © Michael Dom

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