Pregnant moons, and the metallic backs of beetles -
making lace of lilies that once held hope
in the curve of their praying leaves...
I have too much to do to write,
time. I haven't got
7 days to give birth
to contextual beauty.
I don't have
the beauty to lend
to my text.
Instead, there is work,
driving me well into the sunrise
fueled by insomnia, unpaid bills,
and a tepid McMocha
three hours old.
There will be no more pregnancy,
and hope has become
a mathmatical formula
within the lines of a spreadsheet invoice,
held for mailing next week.