Pointless

A blowfly, corralled within the glazed enclosure of our kitchen, beats itself against the glass, its dim brain promising freedom each time it rams headlong into the fatal deception of its compound eyes. It doesn’t learn but keeps up the pointless banging as if persistence will somehow make glass yield. In the end whatever circuitry that powers its being is battered to a pulp and disconnects from life. Expelled in a dying spasm, stillborn progeny fleck the window sill in agonies of white.