More Dangerous Than the Winged Bite

In the fever-thick jungles of dusk, she drones, Anopheles—needle-nosed, hunger-boned. She dances on air, a whisper of death, Syringe-laced with venom and stilled breath. Men curse her—the blood thief, the midnight wraith, That hums her hymns of parasitic faith.

Yet watch, I beg you—step back from the grass. There’s another creature with venom to pass. Not winged, not wingless—two-legged, upright. Draped in silk lies and a smile too white. He speaks, yet kills—not with fang or sting, But with every sweet word he dares to fling.

The mosquito draws blood because it must live. Man draws it because he cannot forgive. Anopheles feasts and fades into air, But Man lingers—gloating in despair. He sucks not from skin, but from trust and soul, He carves love open just to feel whole.

She never mocks you—she never lies. But Man will laugh as he watches you die. Not in body, but in esteem, in dream, In the corners of kindness where silence screams. He names his wounds with poetic pride, While tossing his neighbor to drown in the tide.

"How are you?" he asks with poisoned breath, As he sharpens his tongue with thoughts of death. He builds no tombs, no blood-soaked altars, Just gossip-filled rooms where sanity falters. He calls you 'brother', yet eyes your throne, He kills with a whisper—leaves you alone.

And in office, in pew, in market and street, He dresses the truth in counterfeit heat. He bites with sarcasm, a smile skewed right, Polished in charm, yet colder than night. "You're nothing," he says with sugar on top, While bleeding you out with each casual drop.

Anopheles, they swat with rage, Yet Man they crown as prophet and sage. They poison their dinners with bitter disdain, Then post pretty quotes to ease their pain. "I’m healing," they claim, while breaking the next. They sing of love—then ghost their ex.

And oh! What names they invent to slice— Fool, failure, freak, not worth the price. They carve each label like etchings in bone, Not in honesty—but to not feel alone. Better to maim than admit you're scared, Better to judge than say, "I cared."

In temples, mosques, and digital threads, They crucify truth with emoji-fed dreads. They scream of peace while hoarding the knives, Demanding respect from their echo-chambered lives. A species of echo, irony, and spite— So loud they forgot what it means to be right.

Anopheles kills because it must, Yet humans kill with laughter and trust. Not malaria, but malice they spread— Leaving hearts, not bodies, rotting and dead.

But wait—pause—peer through that soot-stained sky, There once stood a Man who chose not to lie. He walked not on water, but through fire and mud, Yet carried each stranger like kin of his blood. He didn't preach peace, he practiced it whole— With open palms and a stitched-up soul.

He was kind—not for gain but for grace, And justice burned sacred behind his face. He spoke little, but when he did— It healed, it held, it silenced the grid. No charity post, no highlight reel— His love was quiet, his goodness real.

He gave joy like bread in a famished land, He offered warmth with unclenched hands. A storm walked through him, but he stood still— Not perfect, but willing—against the chill. Strength was in his patience, not in control, His power was mercy, stitched to his soul.

But that Man, I fear, is fading fast. Buried beneath the online mask. Now we trade affection for digital likes, And empathy for sharpened spikes. We forgot how to sit, how to cry, how to kneel, How to say, “I’m hurting,” and actually feel.

We forgot the pleasure of giving delight, Of holding another through shadow and fright. We forgot how to praise without a price, Or to hear someone out without thinking twice. Humility? Gone. Apology? Weak. Affection? Risky. Vulnerable? Freak.

Our strength? It once was in lifting each other, Now it’s masked in pride, in crushing the other. We flex with fortune, not forgiveness deep, We climb on corpses to earn our sleep. Our weakness? It's simple—we fear to feel. Because if we did, we’d know what’s real.

So let the mosquito be damned by men, At least she doesn’t pretend to be a friend. She bites, yes, but leaves you free— Man bites, then calls it empathy.

Yet all is not lost, if man remembers— The warmth of August and cold Decembers. That we are more than bruised egos and noise, More than false power, more than lost joys.

To be Man—truly—is to build and bind, To lift, to listen, to speak and be kind. To love without barter, to bleed with grace, To humble the heart, and soften the face.

So hush now, friend, and be what’s rare— A voice that doesn’t tear or scare. Speak like the rain, fall like the dew, And when they curse—be something new. Let your words be balm, not bite. Be the dawn in another's night.

And maybe then, when the world takes stock, It won’t praise the loudest—it'll praise the rock. The one who stood when all else fled, Who chose to heal, while others bled. And perhaps then—at long, long last— We’ll fear not mosquitoes... but the shadows we've cast.