Gecko on the Window
By J Caraballo
Warm light, a beacon for insects,
a window open to the nocturnal feast.
A body lurks in shadow,
stuck to the glass like a seal.
Eyes, lidless moons,
watch the ritual hum.
Tongue like lightning, silent judgment,
devours wings as if they were sins.
Each leap, a captive;
each prey, a silent confession.
The light calls them to eternal doom.
It answers with blind hunger,
no chants, no truce —
just a tense body in the night.
When the last insect falls,
it remains, motionless,
a sadistic god behind the glass,
devouring forever its domain.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:21 PM UTC
Gecko on the Window
By J Caraballo
Warm light, a beacon for insects,
a window open to the nocturnal feast.
A body lurks in shadow,
stuck to the glass like a seal.
Eyes, lidless moons,
watch the ritual hum.
Tongue like lightning, silent judgment,
devours wings as if they were sins.
Each leap, a captive;
each prey, a silent confession.
The light calls them to eternal doom.
It answers with blind hunger,
no chants, no truce —
just a tense body in the night.
When the last insect falls,
it remains, motionless,
a sadistic god behind the glass,
devouring forever its domain.