The Fly

by Rhyme In Time

With hundred eyes all things at once to see,
It skitters in its airy argosy.

From place to place the buzzing black beast flits,
And everywhere it lands, it feeds or shits.

Why does the desultory fly persist
As though in futile flight its fate resist?

A span of days, at most, until the swat
Makes fetid food if it, like what it sought.

Perhaps the fly knows just as much as we,
But doesn’t have the time for poetry.

2 Comments to “The Fly”

  1. Don’t forget the “read more ” and nice poem.

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