Mosquito

The sun comes up; the sun goes down. Where the sun sits on the earth’s daily round makes no difference. I still hear the sound.

The buzzing, the flitting, the tiny wings flapping–they cause me great fear and send anxiety lapping around my heart and throat and tongue, but their buzzing song must always be sung. And to my ears they sing along while nipping and tasting in joyous throng.

All my life they’ve bothered me so, piercing the skin to the blood below, sucking and drinking numbingly slow, leaving me swollen, in agonizing throe.

They escape before I go in for the kill; unfortunately, now, I know the drill. Itching, scratching, bleeding still, this should be anything but run-of-the-mill.

The future holds my saving grace; in paradise I’ll always have a smiling face. The cemetery is truly a quiet place. No sign of them there, not even a trace.

The dead don’t bleed and neither do I, whether six feet under or high in the sky. “No more biting,” I finally sigh–too bad it wasn’t the mosquito to die.

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