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Pretty Pests
Toward the quarter-turn of my own personal century,
I've fluttered toward lights that warm, burn and misdirect.
As the moth to the lamp, I've bumped and bombarded;
only to be told away, swatted like a pest, and flattened
beneath the wary boot of those who sit above me.
I've made it through moments with little understanding
and little concern for these thoughts and demands made
by a world that never bothered to explain itself to me.
Following no one to nowhere, I've yet to find contentment,
but I've also yet to discontinue all my staggered seeking.
Lost while in captivity, confused by your need for petty ritual,
and constantly beneath this senseless status quo;
I am little more than growing weeds among commissioned gardens.
Will you be a pest with me? To hover about, just out of reach,
and just among each other, lost as we are, in a place made for none.
Chasing decoration with conversation entirely our own
and losing consciousness after tangling and finding out some shade.
I've dreamt of you, the other half to the whole of my absence
from all the senselessness abounding, surrounding,
drowning me in pointless strife and archaic means of judgment.
Were you the one, who's buzzed about my hollow self,
filling me discreetly with dust from your patterned wings:
I would shine my own dazzling beacon in hopes I'd attract you,
though never would I cage you, or cast upon you shadows --
but simply stay illuminated, in hopes to keep you close.
