Flies And Men Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Why should not every fly deserve an epitaph,
distinctive niche retain to archive winged descent
praising each species' strain, charting their genes' ascent,
to measure time thereby in metered poly graph?

Why should each tail-less Man detail pathetic trace,
polluting land, sea, air, with ashes, trampling grass
beneath beer can or bier's hard headstone where ‘alas'
not ‘R.I.P.' aside sums up his tale of ‘grace'?

If life is chrysalid between two karmic dreams
why care a tinker's curse for hearse or ashes spread,
or passing sigh rehearse, when in time's web pall bed
sums all - kid, spell, sell, bid, knell, hid, - hubbub's extremes.

Time flies with wings nor sect, nor insect may restrain,
rhyme sighs: ‘Time's stings respect! ' yet stay telomeres' strain.

The fly in ointment seems flies outweigh humankind,
a grave dilemma here, with overcrowded towns,
its progeny to steer towards 'Old Maggot's Downs'
though'd correspond to dream Musca has daily signed.

It might be contraversial as maggots feast on men
to praise each fly's return to Earth with angel wings
and thereby earn an urn. 'Hic jacet' - 'here lies' brings
a flighty role-reversal beyond of kith the ken.

If elegy there be, then bees could claim the same,
cheer swarming twitter buzz, as bees birds too could chirp,
all species fly-by-night might seek fame's game, scorn blame.
Why must brash biped fly's true pride of place usurp?

Bluebottles small deserve more than Man, blind, allows
to throttle, thrall, free oeuvre - war spans clans' minds, all ploughs.