I am aware that every insect is equal in the eyes of god,

But I’ve come to favor a few.
The moth, ever drawn to it’s guiding light,
Is incapable of distinguishing gossamer moon air, from hungry flame.
The centipede, writhes serpentine and dignified;
Inkstained back like an irreverent penstroke.
And the fly, spilling forth like little psychopomps,
Inscrutably returning us to nature.
I hope to be favored too,
Beyond my glass stained eyes and aching hands.