Morsels

  
trifles and water flies
surpassing irritations,
why do others keep  pecking
Old trees and old growth.
when will the rot set in,
when does the pupae burst,
which one is the last at the end  

worried horses tail hairs
harried
simply twisted strands,
                          of thought,
                                          of heart
palpitating anew each time

Cauldrons of fire ,
                          ensconced in his embrace  
she offered all;  
                          was there  a feast for His eyes
nay His mandibles
                          masticating, munching, minnowing,
morsels of fleshy fat caught between
His teeth
That taste,
                that smell,
                          that never-ending soundscape
reverberates in echoes cresting off stone crags

down at the base ,
                          ripples in still waters
drip, drip drip
                          insanity lies in focus - if too strong,
Yet she waits ,
                          immured to His intransigence,
Certain
He will come
like a Moth to a flame

was it not the other way,
should it have been that way?