you wait
thirteen years,
seventeen years
wrapped up in dirt and blistered
of your own skin
lying in the dark
til time splinters
through with large eyes
wide feeding off sap
with your wood flesh shell
like eating yourself
singing a loud
proud song
of a nymph's refrain
singing for the next generation
singing because you can
because she likes you that way
because your voice brings voice
to those still burrowed in the dark.
(another insect obsession.)
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