An Insect And The Unfinished Poem

The dusky horizon coloured in a light shade of orange,

a bunch of flying seagulls sprinkled in white amongst those orangish hues,

punctuated by tall unknown trees coloured in many variants of green and red,

those wispy, cirrus clouds, like a peeping veil through the openings,

of the fluffy cumulonimbuses,

the green quilt of infinite fields sprawling across,

the shimmering blur of blue on the lake, soaking the weight of every shadow,

that dim sepia-esque street light, slowly glowing brighter, brighter.

*

As I kept thinking how to complete the remaining poem,

how to begin the next stanza,

this unknown insect somehow managed to sit over my fingers,

a little landing ground after a long flight perhaps,

albeit for a momentary moment,

but inspiring me to write the above lines,

before flying away again, maybe to its home,

or maybe searching for another poet's fingers,

to provide inspiration that this little being has,

to finish the unfinished poem or that untouched story,

to not stop and keep scribbling, keep scribbling.

***