- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Insect
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Click hereInsect
A fan-heater, noisy,
switched into silence:
the heat goes quickly,
the room grows cold.
Stirred by the chill
an unseasonal insect,
fattened on others,
covets the body in bed.
The thought to kill it
crosses the mind,
but innocents find it
also innocent.
So loving souls
wake sick and old
with wounds for which
love has no balm.
- COMMENTS
sir_goodheadover 14 years agoan overabundance of punctuation when one considers your enjambments. Enjoyed.
* I don't use the thermometer.*
greenmountaineerover 14 years agoI enjoyed the poem until the last line, which ended too abruptly for me. If the wounds were more than a bed bug's, which I presume they were, some further metaphor about wounds might have served well, perhaps the wounds the parents themselves have or know their children will experience later in life. Absent something like that, the last line felt like a cliche. Neat and tidy and fascinating to me otherwise.
