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The Hornet and The Chandelier

We sit frantic and superstitious

In the womb of a stormy August night.


Our only light is a flicker taken over,

A flicker like a perforated star-

Or a sun with a manic Mercury.


Afraid of ourselves, we stare at a hornet

Wishing death upon it

Like good believers


We tolerate no disruptions of our rituals.

Was it a paper wasp or a yellowjacket,

We would sleep through it like infants


But the hornet, the hornet,

With its orange depravities

And deviance of a sundew,

Acting as something almost familiar,

Is not to be absolved.


The quietness didn’t arrive with it all

Neither did fear nor fury nor frenzy,

But right now, it is to blame.

Beelzebub himself.


We will kill it

Like the Sun kills every eclipse

Despite knowing another will come nevertheless.


And as the storm passes

Still silent and trustless

In stings and wings up to the necks,

We will slowly turn on all of the lights.

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