a meaningful existence is only fleetingly glimpsed between the chaos of our everyday lives . . .
I sit down to write
and a fly joins me
higher pitched than a bee
it does what its name suggests
but in random unsettling bursts
that interrupts the flow of my
early morning creativity
I feel the urge to kill it
even though it's doing no harm
as no fresh meat sits on my desk
waiting for it to wipe its dirty feet
and puke and chew and contaminate
as all good flies must surely do
at the first sign of anything nice
and is my poetry worth more
than the life of a simple fly?
would my swatting hand deny
the validity of my poet's mind
when espousing my just causes
and berating those who do harm to others
in the name of peace and harmony?
thankfully it drifts away
and my thoughts return in full swing
despite the washing machine
choosing this moment to begin its spin
and build to a crescendo that resembles
the creation of the universe
many millions of years ago . . .
. . . silence . . .
a black hole moment in this day
when the meaning of it all should
come together perhaps in these last few
remaining lines but the fly returns
and I place a bet with some certainty
that within a day or two it will be dead
lying on the window sill
legs akimbo as if caught in the act
of a complicated dance that went wrong
and caused the little fella's heart to collapse
and there end it's life in a futile last ditched attempt
to right itself and continue being
something sentient and reasoning
if that was ever possible . . . ?
words ©Colin Hill 2018