To a Dragonfly

Still there on the windowsill
Still there but still receding
Into distance
You are so small
And yet so magnified
That I could put my nails
Through the segments that lie down
Between the soft-bone main threads
Of your silk-pretending wings
(Imagine:
The milksop skin
Melting not breaking)
You are so trapped
You are so broken
Your destiny lies fuddled
In the roughness of my hands
You flap to beg for mercy
But in vain - why should I listen?
Because
Because...
No!
Silk
Is the product of murder
So why should I show flickers of remorse?
Worms boiled alive
Are what you're made of.
But I
Am the product of my maker
So why should I not treat you
Like my father treated me?
Extremity of purpose
Is the thing that I am made of
And now my Caesar's thumbs have dropped
The rust-flecked stickpin fingers follow suit
Claw down to fray your own extremities
That lie rack-stretched but fluttering
Beneath the open window
Lacewing spacewing
I was born
I was banished
You were borne away
And I loved you
Wilfully tried to fly to you
Eluding sticky snares
(Parental children-traps)
But you
You
Wilfully failed to exist
So enough.
Enough.
My revenge
Will make you limp not fly on your migration
As you nose towards the future
Of your infantile recession
Enough.
Enough of you.
Goodbye.