A Fly's Purpose
Steamy daylight seeps into
flesh, bone and drywall.
A large fly is trapped
between the curtain and a hot window.
Can’t tell if it’s angry, desperate, or confused,
the buzz is intermittent,
the pauses lulls of restoration,
or instincts in abeyance.
Maybe it just forgets to be anything.
Wondering if its purpose was decreed,
its mission,
to eat the dead things of the earth,
to bury its body in the rot,
in the waste of corruption?
Will a fly, on judgement day,
be called to confess,
and shall I, on that day of judgement,
be chemically sprayed,
to be now
my own gift of decay.
Job done.
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