an utterance holding no weight
because one can not measure
this sort of gravity
many wake up, hunters
studying their game
steadying their aim
knowing their time to strike
now here lie you
ignoble insect
needing to be born
the pupa ate her mother
as instincts convinced it
the target is grand
it is what has nurtured you
and yet you
pathless pest
you are not satisfied with biology
when you tire of squashing bugs you seek
a hallowed trophy
a final satiation
an enemy
greater than you can ever be
to rid the ones who push
unto you form and flesh
Prometheus is in your sights
his greatest gift guilty of titanicide
your body's the murder weapon
the motive: cinders of
all that has made you
and where lie you then
after killing this impossible
prey?
needing to be born from ashes
forgetting darkness follows