Somewhere
In my room
Lodged probably
Between a couple
Dusty books in some
Dark corner
A cricket is dying,
That energy to hop
Succumbing to the
enervating
Burn of killer
spray.
I feel bad,
But one of us had
to go,
Though I know
He must've had one
long trek
To make it from
outside
All the way into my
Second-floor abode,
Following the
light, the light,
Probably not
thinking of anything else
But the light
Upstairs.
And too soft to
smash him
I sprayed him
mercilessly with
Bitter fiery stuff
And now
Unseen to me
He's squiggling
about
On his back
Frantically
Still calling for
the light
Flabbergasted
As the poison
Eats his shell,
And his body
Involuntarily
Ossifies
Into a ball of
cold, dead
Exoskeleton.
