A Mosquito's Religion

Before the hemoglobin rushes in parting life from life empty abdomens swirl from the dust. Born to die, their parasitical humor is a terror in the ear. Blood from wine in the vein, drawn past the epidermal sanctity of a crimson relic. Swiftly they fly about seeking that aching moment. With tourniquet wings buzzing set in veneration about their host. And for a brief moment they seem holy enough to not need to mend their religion and carry out these kindless proverbs. But then falling from grace so gently they descend down touching lightly with the bent legs of a sinner needing redemption. Nathan Martin 2010