An entomologist after an apocalypse

They told me don’t
go there. Don’t weep.
Millions of insects;
many of them lovers
dead under blasted stars.
Little creatures hiding themselves.
But I must
piece together each part for part.

This is a poetical form known as the golden shovel.
I took this from :

Don’t weep, insects –
Lovers, stars themselves,
Must part.

– Issa

*update: This poem ended up being a finalist for the day 5  thirty day napowrimo challenge at writers digest.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2014-april-pad-challenge-final-results

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2 Comments

  1. Wow, this is stunningly well done.

    Reply

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