National Poetry Month: Day Four

The Bat Cave

His mother has waited months,
starved of any daylight,
for his wings to grow by moonshine.
He grows while clawed feet
grip onto the ceiling, holding on
to fly in tomorrow's sunbeams.
In the dark, he weakens and falls.
The hundreds left up there
are helpless and can only squeal.
The bottom of the cave is alive.
They crawl up to the weak to nip
at his flesh; the softest juice
their only chance of survival.
They suck up all his wings,
every inch explored and foraged.
While his mother has to hang on
and cry for her only son.