Centipede Dreams
The cool summer evening on a flower petal left to die
A thousand lovely deaths, the caterpillar sits right of center,
To muse my existence into the haze of young adulthood,
A figment in haphazard flurry.
I lay down slow atop tempestuous concrete.
Clichés dance mightily asleep in August dreams.
Languid and frozen alive within the cracks among frantic ants
Knowing not what to think. Believe me never for you are my
Neighbor in a world full of insects.
Who am I but a colorless butterfly lost among the stars.
Existing yet unknown to the masses and the few, I reach out to
Festive daffodils, to feel them close at heart against my
Sun resistant skin ravaged by secular transgressions.
Rage and fury consume me. Chaotic contemplation and doubt
Embellish my sordid conscience. Vows yet to manipulate along
A lonely street crowded with uncertainty.
On my front driveway, the universe exists within my fingernail
For I am just a centipede. I control nothing except a vast cocoon
I spin and weave to manipulate the fragile egos of mindless many.
by T.B. Mangini
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