Edward Rochester Esq.
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Crawl
We mimic the serpent
though fang-less
the attempted puncture,
falling apart as wetted paper,
the rumble from darkened skies
mocking our scream.
Falling short of the sun's kiss
to sky, the moon's dance
with stars, we go forth and multiply
raising skin and bone armies but alas,
no match to that which stands firm
from the beginning of beginnings.
We shall inherit breath then perish,
as the sun's kiss continues,
the moon, its dance, leaving only
our graffiti scribbles on the slate
of time.