There is No God

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Our loves go on.  Mosquitoes come and go

But mostly come as faithful as the saints

Who hug their holiness as martyrs, slow

To give up.  They avoid delicious taints.

Mosquitoes, though, are ever greedy for

Your blood and like the Devil’s minions bite,

Bite, bite.  They sneak up by the score

(If you are lucky) but far more at night

When you are desperate for your rest and sleep.

Mosquito nets are jokes to clever stings.

The evil bitches stab their points in deep

When swoops have buzzed their way on itchy wings.

  Malaria is what they hope for most

    When they are torturing their sleepless host.