this little hornet

this little hornet

wriggling in-between the grooves

of my brain

stuck

with wings fluttering

a roar

always dying

always alive

and i can feel

its little legs

and its hair

and its mouth

and its eyes

brushing against it all

against me all

again, again, again, again, again, again

again, again, again, again, again, and again

ferries me to this island

carpeted in a fog

thick you'd forget your face

and your legs

even if your fingers traced the contours

on the air

and at some point

running's the same as walking

sitting's the same as standing

crying's the same as laughing

and that roar

a God's roar

a Hell's roar

a Child's, a Dust's, a Star's, a Throat's,

you don't even know if either you

or that little, tiny

hornet

mothered it