A blanket of rough blue wool
Scratches and thinly covers wounds
Blood-stained and full of holes
It should be buried somewhere
Deep in the worm-filled dirt with others'
Keeping the cold cicadas warm
I can see why I keep it
The cicadas cry so loudly when
they reach earth
no longer wool-and-dirt-warm nymphs
The sky's so bright, big, and blue
A bigger cotton comforter
will only remind us of
our lost friends
I guess we'll all be screaming
cicadas, us, and every living creature
in the end.
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