It changes
color with its creed
and lurks
about in rotting weed.
A tender
branch snaps under its fat scales.
A hopeful moth, illuminated by brief joy,
blind to
malevolence and spite
flutters toward it seeking literary light.
Out flicks
the bulbous forked tongue.
Squashed like flea under thumb
The moth is gone,
its hope
turned into ugly stains
of unexplained,
uncalled-for pains.
Hence, little
writer-moth,
Beware: Of bilious
hot breath
spewing forth from fat Chameleons.
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