The cigarette bud is crushed
Into the creases
Of rotten Would.
I can see my face
Resembled in the ash
And know we are
One and the same.
Though I more closely
Imitate the insect.
Rummaging through cadavers,
Squirming boils burst
at their own
volition
Dug deep into the earth
To taste the red hot
Of my species
Under so much weight,
I begin the great ascent
Knowing it’s likely
I’ll never see
The green surface.
It’d be easier to accept death,
But what’s the point
Of a bug like that.
