Summer beetles don’t buzz they tell of life
of the growing grass,
young eager blades laced with hope, left on a hunting knife,
of haunting stories
cascading down mugs like the old morning dew,
the story of me and you.
Summer beetles don’t buzz they sing hope
of innocent weavers
and black fingers, a knot, a noose, a length of rope.
of weavers in the shade, masters in the sun
a temporary death to watch our white skeletons hue,
the death of me and you.