Cicada

This poem is more akin to what I've written in the past.

A dormant life, demurring, dreaming,

never failing, fearing, fleeting.

Time's an illusion, a halcyon haze.

A larvae I stay, for days upon days.

Awaken only to f**k and to frolic

and bless the sky, the beauty bucolic.

Yet when it stales, the moment's been told,

and the weather's growing cold;

when I retreat from being bold:

I die and rot and start to mold.

Author's Note

Just tell me what's on your mind. Please.