Summer Sonata

[My entry for this week's Three Word Wednesday]

From a mosquito the hum that escapes,

a stifled imagination seeks to rhyme

and divine, the nature of their whine:

Is it the scraping of their twin bayonets

on ruddied whetstones, as in wait they lain?

Is it the vibrant hymn they sing, the battle cry,

before they pierce and cause nettling pain?

Is it the howl of gloat from these miniature rigs

after slurping the blood they drained?

Or is it the wail uttered by these guardians

of Dracula's lost soul, for all their slain?

From a mosquito a hum escapes,

and this imagination seeks to rhyme,

the nature of divine.