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.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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