Assassin Bug

I think I spy an assassin bug,
Stalking amongst the twigs,
A reduviid killer,
Aspect of mantis,
Proclivity of spider,
A tiny predator of a huge world,
Or is it a tiny one?
Does the world belong to the bugs?

Cloaked in the corpses of ants,
Previous ravaged conquests,
Both armour and disguise,
Its proboscis twitches,
Secreting a lethal nectar,
Expecting to digest defeated internals,
Fodder for an emotionless killer,
I see it close in on an innocent,

Unsuspecting soul on a branch,
It strikes,
All wings and blades,
Corrosive saliva injected,
Reducing chitin to husk,
Its grim meal complete,
It gazes over at me,
Eyeing me hungrily,

Fight or flight?

Moths

I often feel,
I’m surrounded by insects,
Moths specifically,

They flutter in office spaces,
Flitter sullenly about suburbs,
And drift carelessly along sidewalks,

They commune briefly,
Then fly on,
Towards their each own light,

We’re all moths you know,
We flutter about on frail wings,
Fragile aimless things,

We don’t even know we’re doing it,
We all have different wings,
Yet we all strive towards the same thing,

Towards a light,

At least we believe it’s the sun,
But as we draw closer,
The sun is peculiarly crypt-shaped.