An Entomologist's dream house, where
Fruit Flies appear at the most inopportune times, slicing space to coincide with others of their kind.
Simultaneous mud spews out of their mating rituals, like a volcanic eruption, scattering rational thought. It conjures my fight or flight response to a proverbial tick of an invasive clock.
Save me in morning's attitude. Heal me in
Angular night. Cut me like corners to escape the speckled light.
And when I enter human dream world, I will fall into your reaching arms. Finally safe from the starkness of an Entomologist's realm.
Sufferless, at least for an unpredictable period of time.
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