Monday, December 12, 2016

Murder and Mercy

It is cold December
And the big fat flies
Crawl and pace against the inside window pane
Seeking some sort of release and passage
To a destination
That you and I know as their certain doom.
They bother me
By some memory jogged of rot and wretch
And head the registered list of things
That I must distance myself from
These vectors of the world unclean
Messengers of dark fear and terror.
But it is their life,
Their way unchosen,
And who am I to judge
And unilaterally arbitrate?
And so I shoo them out the door
Fool flies soon frozen,
Or dispatch them
Quickly with a swat
Of murderous mercy.
I am a calculating brute
Of mood and moment
And so must also register myself
On that list of the things unclean.


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