Cockroach
Marc Mosko, 1993

Somewhere in the death's decay, post-war, post-holocaust, post-city, post-man, new life stirs beneath the ash. It struggles for existence, pushing, squirming, to escape from its cocoon, steel debris -- fallen artifacts of all that is past. Feeling its way, blind in the darkness, permanent black, eclipsed sun through toxic sky, bumping, inadvertent back track, slow progress out, out to the surface, standing triumphant upon the rubble, a Prometheus, spawner, molder of the race to come, the new masters.