post poetry you like here
ill go first
Writing, I crushed an insect with my nail
And thought nothing at all. A bit of wing
Caught my eye then, A gossamer so frail
And exquisite, I saw in it a thing
That scorned the grossness of the thing I wrote
It hung upon my finger like a sting.
A leg I noticed next, fine a mote,
“And on this frail eyelash he walked,” I said,
“And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat”
And in the mood I sought the little head,
But it was lost; then in my heart a fear
Cried out, “A life- why beautiful, why dead!”
It was a mite that held itself most dear,
So small I could have drowned it with a tear