Little Spirits (New) Poem by Alison Rosalie

insects all small and black
lack panic, they dance up in frantic trances
as i seat myself beneath an eaten tree.
i scribble in pink specifically, maybe
it means something.
a spider with fat legs watches me,
and skips onto my shirt.

i am not positive if it is my vision failing
or my brain all adaze in some exhausted haze
but the faces all begin to look the same-
every stranger is a face i've seen.
acquaintances whom i have yet to meet
mean nothing to me.

the audience greets me and i reluctantly reply,
terrified to space the necessary breaths
between tedious reverberant neutral lies-
'nothing, ' i squeak
and they giggle like i
have said something funny.

tiny flies, auburn ants and quick little spiders
wander curiously across the page
i wonder if vertical me seems to them like a tree-
all eaten and defeated in the shade of my own glee,
saying nothing to the bugs who explore me casually.

i cannot say for certain i know what happiness means;
though the small darting bugs do not bother me,
the scowling wasps still make me scream-

but when i stand those yellow demons relent
and fly alongside me, illusory