Another poem to keep me writing,
The title of this one is "a beetle":
A beetle gnaws the base of this dead tree,
I wonder if they know their own design.
When wood will creak and warp and crash all down,
will they fly off in fright of what was done?
The beetle, does it pride itself on this?
A huge behemoth felled by one so small.
If not I think I'll take this pride with me,
perhaps I can feel good about my own.
So let me be the beetle in life's wood,
as rotten and decayed as it may be.
Perhaps I can just gnaw through something huge,
and make some space for something beautiful.
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