What passing bells for words long forgotten?
They line dust-crusted libraries preserved,
Existing inside ossified book spines,
Inert quintessence stuck in jars reserved.
Like insects, buzzing words pitch forth off tongues,
Glimmering thoraxes and speckled wings,
The insects chiming their soft, artful strings,
And decorating air with their language.
This coruscating flight has dulled then ceased,
The chimes and arcing flights in grave retreat,
From pesticides which glowing screens release,
Leaving empty shells on library shelves.
The somber insects gather dust on page,
And yearn as they are forgotten with age.