FROM the darkness of cold, cavernous dwellings, droplets
plop a steady beat—soundtrack to the busy work of chirping
chatterboxes crafting goldmines of spun sugar magic. Tinkerbell
wings flutter as you fuss over miniature masterpieces, woven
with translucent threads. The glue is the key: your spittle
solidified into nature’s epoxy. What a marvel you are, you sooty-
winged shamans! Within each coralesque pocket, tiny treasures
are transferred for safe keeping: precious pearls with beating hearts.
.
WEEKS from now, your homes will be pillaged; raiders
greedy for this aphrodisiac. Whilst you glide away
from the ruins with your fledgling brood towards
new horizons, the last laugh’s on them. They—
with their strange little kinks, slurping on your saliva,
calling it the caviar of the east.
About the Creator
Paris Rosemont
Thai Australian poet. Author of poetry collections 'Banana Girl' and 'Barefoot Poetess'.
You may find me at https://www.parisrosemont.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/parisrosemont
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/msparisrose/
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By John Oliver Smith3 days ago in Humor
Comments (1)
Bird's nest soup? I like the juxtaposition of the crafting of the nest with it being pillaged, as all treasure is. Great poem.