The Flying Insects

I temper myself with the dying chill,
the post-traumatic blues of Fall,
an ebony ant among, almost ignoring,
the giants' outreached, skeletal hands
who years ago, were frozen by magi,
reaching for the monsters above.
I am high with fire, unattached,
perfectly wingless and unmagnified,
pulled down by disfigured angels'
sneering "failure" with 'divine' might;
the flying insects seem to confuse
looking down with taking flight.