Saturday, August 4, 2012


They don't bite like normal mosquitoes.
They don't fly,
or dance,
or walk on their toes.
They wait for you to strike an ignorant pose.
They don't buzz,
They don't flitter,
but they unwisely whisper.
They illuminate grief,
like the loss of a sister.
As they plan an attack they can safely assure.
They jump,
they walk,
they silently stalk
They signal,
they gesture,
they busily talk
Rain filled, they soak you,
before your tent you can pitch.
Painful, they infect you,
with a scratch less itch.
Nameless, they haunt you,
without hope for a wish.
Heartless, they follow you,
seeking forevers hitch.

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