The Fly

Day 1 I sit to write in peaceful solitude, while words of tranquil elegance exude visions of nature's beauty and soft light, but it's not my muse which has taken flight.  A bastard housefly sails a curvy path, as irritation grows to rage and wrath. Essentially, the reason is because this little jerk emits a galling buzz. When I think the skumbag's finally stopped, and I could hear it if a pin were dropped, the excrement eating insect starts again, an insidious attack upon my brain. You would not think a creature who is this small  could find a way to bother me at all, and yet he drives me completely daft and nuts, until upon my window, I see his guts.  Day 2 Awaking from a frightful fever dream, I hear a buzz, and choke down a helpless scream. The window guts, a subconscious, wishful scene, before I slept, I missed with the magazine. One slight move, he's no longer stationary. Have I misjudged this pint-size adversary? His flight is like 3-D billiards in the halls, bouncing off unseen, invisible walls. Why has this beast chosen me to torment, to lead me in my sanity's descent to Hell, a place I would gladly send him if my worthless Westways could only rend him. Yet, I said, "fly to the screen door, for once, and we'll both be free, you insectoid dunce". A desperate jack o'lantern, I am hollow. Everywhere I go, he seems to follow.  Perhaps, the little guy has something to say, tracing the 3-D model of DNA. Does he buzz the hundred thirty-seventh psalm? Could it be that last week, I killed his mom? Day 3 Hopefully, I think the fly's diminished, and that soon this monster will be finished. He seems to be flying slowly like he's drunk. His decibel measure significantly shrunk. He's fast and young, but he's aging faster, giving me the better odds to plaster him. Who will be victorious in the end? On whose nerves are made of steel, it will depend. Day 4 Dead on the floor, two haggard creatures lay. In one's hand, "you're just like a summer's day".