The room fills with bugs
As I struggle to write by lamplight 
Summer’s heat can drive one to kill 
Or at least mortally wound 
I think it’s time that I keep to myself
For an indefinite period of time 
I’ll hold my aging breath
Until the oak leaves start to turn
And the autumnal rain 
Comes down in slicing sheets
By then, these hell-sent insects 
Will have died a thousand deaths 
While I’ll in in the midst of preparation 
For the forthcoming resurrection