Flies
Diaphnanous singing in the sizzling heat
The white maggots turn black with wings
Dead flesh melts through a solvent treat
Festering on wounds of paupers and of kings
Something more here than this pesty buzzing song
Some deep possession ladles joy
In an office so darkly wrong
The gift to heal, mostly maligned will destroy
Even the parting prayer of a poet
Waiting for her Charon to come
Becomes their carrion before the last breath:
Pale page closed on that plagued kingdom
For every one a thousand more eyes lens us
Wing throated monsters full of crave
Sees us and everything as sweet detritus
And mark our channel to the grave
From their choir superior triumph rings
Over man, these our flitting foes
They live a lunar cycle, yet conquer kings
Time's brevity no meekness shows
I study flies to tell the epitaph's gall
We measured out on spooning tongues
We, locked in vanity on the spining ball
Hear their wet buzzing in our lungs
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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