On the Afterlife of Insects
The bodies are hollow.
Rice paper over rotting slits.
Nothing inside to hold them up
So they cave in.
The bodies are empty.
Leeches live inside
Working their way from inside out.

The cities are hollow.
Plastic over steel beams.
Picasso's horse, staring out to
The illusion of sky.
The cities are empty.
The locus moves in a swarm
Fat off itself.

The earth is hollow.
Blood seeping into dirt.
Acid filling the soft-pored sponge
Enough to drown Gaia.
The earth is empty.
Mindless ants dig
Determined on reaching the center.

Heaven is hollow.
Golden streets leave pearly gates.
The sun beats off the surface
Blinding the eye.
Heaven is empty.
Filled with insects
None that are worthy.