April 28th arrives
as an infested house,
a structure trembling
under the soft, relentless weight
of everything that crawls,
buzzes,
flutters,
or insists on existing
in the cracks of the world.
It is not one kind of bug.
It is all bugs,
every species the ending world
has ever whispered into being.
They come in waves,
in tides,
in clouds.
Clouds of bees
thick enough to dim the sun,
their hum a low,
ancient chorus
that vibrates through the walls
like a forgotten prophecy.
Tides of spiders
rolling across the floorboards,
a dark, rippling carpet
of delicate legs
and silent intentions.
Flocks of butterflies
bursting through the windows
in impossible colors,
as if someone tore open
the sky’s paintbox
and let the pigments escape.
The house breathes them in,
breathes them out,
a lung made of wood and dust
struggling to contain
the final gathering
of the world’s smallest survivors.
April 28th is not horror.
It is inheritance.
It is the moment
when the insects claim
what humanity forgot to hold.
The buzzing becomes a language.
The crawling becomes a map.
The fluttering becomes a hymn.
And in the center of it all,
the house stands still,
accepting its fate
as the last sanctuary
for creatures who never asked
for permission to exist.
April 28th ends
with a soft rustle,
a final shimmer of wings,
a quiet reminder
that when the world ends,
the smallest beings
are the ones who stay.
