By Stander...

The weak and desperate  collect their bugs in jars..
Poked holes forgotten with the sun burning...
Suffocation.. mass insect homicide..
A tear in the fabric of our eyes...
Next rain clouds under our eyes shower the soil of our cheeks..
Decay and rot of the fallen pests coagulated on the jar's floor..
Unrecognizable paste with which you paint your face..
Mascara carried by our ocular precipitation..
Falling from our chin melting atop the heart on my sleeve..
The caverns of our vocal chords echo this:
"Fall fast you loathsome... homicidal.. harlot!"
 Only deaf ears heard our chant..