The gadfly emerges from his nest,
a gold medalist in convolution,
crawling through mud as if king,
his flag always high and proud,
Oh, how rats love symbolism.
Hungover gods look down through sullen skies,
shoes crunch on glacial ice,
shadows hide and peek from doorways,
lit from behind by the eternal gaslight.
Night falls, flesh crawls,
time like a cauldron boils,
lost without their compass,
rats stowaway on a sinking ship.
About the author
Irwin is a retired software engineer living in Colorado with his wife and their dog. He has been writing songs for several decades and recently started writing poetry—often about social and political issues. He also has felt for a long time that he has a novel in him, dying to get out, which he is currently working on.
Read more poetry on Flashes