Made of Mosquitoes - Poem
The Man Made of Mosquitoes
I saw the
crackling, the taste of static on my tongue.
The lights
burst on the back porch.
Night air
became a vacuum of silence and fizzing menace.
Circular
shapes held together by fractured broken colours exploded and disappeared.
My eyes
struggled to make them out.
They are
out of place.
In the wrong
time.
-
The chill
held a silence that hurt the inside of my skull.
It was
unnatural to exist within.
Could this be
the rapture.
Some heavenly
messenger.
If the
Christians have it right this could be a bad evening for me.
The colours
continued to appear and fade with popping lights.
Illuminated
the ground momentarily.
I had not
realised how tightly I gripped the wooden railing; splinters began to intrude
into my clammy palms.
But how could
I care, this was alien, the light show before me, it was arching thrashing
colour alive.
-
Loud pops
descended upon me, the atmosphere surge into violence.
Then a shape
of blurred shapeless mass entered through the largest crackling portal.
No body of
its own but collecting matter around it.
The bugs of
the night, mosquitoes that seemed trapped in the vortex of this…thing, swarmed
into construct.
Creating a
completed puzzle, pieced together crude in haste and without reason.
The shape
took strides clearly seen through the moving swarm of insects it wore.
This
invisible force wearing the nature of the night as a cloak, body armour of
exoskeleton and tiny frail wing.
-
Unaware of my
presence or unmoved by it, the shade, this illusive illusional spectre strode
about slowly.
Walking as
though wadding through a sinking swallowing bog of silt and clay.
I had my
rifle by the back door, as always, but never felt compelled to grab for it.
It was not
threatening, it felt lost.
Almost scared
in frantic yet lumbering movement.
No direction,
no aim.
Then it
faded.
The buzz of
the released insects awoke the night once more.
The spectre
faded.
The static
was muted.
