The cricket fixed his gaze upon the distant trees,
Upon the unassuming, slender branch that was his target.
Muscles tensed and mind at ease,
He leapt, escaping time’s suffocating net.
Earthy pillars and leafy coliseums were home,
Instinct and necessity the gladiators whose blood survival stole.
Balance and order incessantly scribbled a natural tome,
And yet, life and death were still matters of the soul.
A playful sun turned the canopy into a tapestry,
Throwing shafts of golden honey into the arborous sea.
The cricket beheld in awe this elegant serenity,
Married to his focus, chained to his plea.
Wrathful lightning scorched his eyes and thunder devoured his ears.
Feral memory cracked its lash,
Ravenous for the raw flesh of his fears.
Helplessly suspended in the past, agony spewed from the jagged gash.
He did not understand probability’s ruthless reign.
He did not understand the storm that consumed his family and home.
He did not understand the reason for his bottomless pain.
Young, broken, and lost, he was left to roam.
His senses rose in rebellion,
Turning the forest into a mangled corpse whose stench poisoned the air.
Doubt dangled him like carrion,
Tempting the cavernous, gluttonous jaws of despair.
Prone to betrayal was his body,
And oft was he stalked by uncertainty.
He knew that he would reach his mark;
He knew to close his eyes and meet willingly the dark.
He knew the rough, uneven surface that suddenly held his weight.
Sweet light gilded his face, and he graciously bathed in the arms of fate.
Though a subject of chance’s might,
He pledged fealty to none but his flight.