Out one day into the heat,
shuffling and strolling my wet feet--
I come upon; oh! what do we have here?
A sickly locust fluttering, how so queer!
Its wings are tattered, broken and thin
from its throat it babbles a ghastly hymn
and it can fly! No, no more, no more,
this creature has been downed upon the floor.
I prod with my toe the misshapen form
to see if its body is still good and warm.
It flips and flutters out further the street--
out where the morning birds like to eat.
And it stills again, there, out there
and from its eye it loses its flair--
to await death from its inside gut
where fear and grief refuse to hunt.
It is here that I wonder, alone,
the locust is but months out of home
and taking life's chilling final hug.
Who now is wiser? Is it me or the bug?
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