Poetry and poësie

Beauty in the stomach of the beholder

The beetle hangs
from his whirring wings.
He swerves around the room,
a helicopter searching
for a landing pad.
A controlled crash
against the wall.
He folds his wings back
under the metal shine
of his wing cases.
Alpha Bravo Charlie,
come in, come in.
Landed safely, Control.
It’s a parquet floor.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
One dead fly, cause of death unknown.
There’s an open window.
I sense the roses.
I’m launching again.
Ravishing beauty awaits outside
to fill my stomach.