Insects

I've never written a prose poem before. I don't know if this would even qualify as it, but ... here you go.

The ceiling smiles, drawing broad tiles away from steel fangs. He sings a lullaby promising security before caving in. His attentive listeners stand firm: insects pushing back on thick fingers of aluminum and glass, staring, wistfully, at the golden light. It streams in through broken blinds, taking pause only to briefly thaw the icy floor. Their breath soft, they don’t deny the futility of their efforts; the impossibility of their task, but are still too scared to fall.