The wasp it enters the cage a**uming its reason
an old routine of any student of shame
she slips in her resin to dine on the fey The resin turns into a seed with every intent to follow
the trend of disease, fevered in crimson shade
So as i wait for it, the kismet, the fated verbal-sadism to sink in
my doubts they shake hands with the cancer
let the game begin Slowly it takes hold
and i wither in shallow breath for i, the whitefly aphid, lost control
seemingly an anchor, knowingly the wave.