Ode to the Bug

I told myself it wouldn't come to this,
But it has.
I told myself I wouldn't do it,
Told myself I was above,
Such states as these.
Told myself,
I wouldn't secede to the temptations,
Of that beckoning silhouette.
That obscure enticement,
Of angelic wings,
Electric halos,
Neither white nor gold.
But black.

Oh, I am sorry.
My chest is gripped,
In the antagonizing fist,
Of deceit.
A twisted raisin,
Bitter to taste
On placid tongues.
Twisted like the black bug,
Who worships the skies,
On its back beside me,
In the corner of this room,
Full of people,
So many people,
And that television,
A numbing buzz,
Of some unimportant figure,
Snuffling my thoughts.

The bug is dead.
And I, too, in farewell,
Shall die in turn.