For A Dying Fly Poem by Kevin Patrick

Crawling, defiantly too its last breath;
parched with sunstroke, and rust jawed lethargy
the proud fly clings, to a refurbished ledge
and straggled arid plains of the cherry red desk
besieged in seethed mirages of paper prairies
and rugged hills of endless stationary
trapped in a desert of a veneer of wood
he slurs like a beggar, on a dry pilgrimage

he stumbles for salvation, but finds no shelter
flips, making backstrokes, on buoyant ripples
his fragile limbs arch, kicking scentless air
composing prayers of half-heart semaphores
deluged in the sweat soaked stench atmosphere
as if railing against the celestial agent
towards the lightbulb that portrays the sun
who in turn replied, with burning accusations


he's slumps near me in his glossy wasteland
Flails his arms against invisible enemies
and feels singed to entropies principles
Burdened with the taste of his mortality
I left him there in piece, he wasn't bugging me
just a blurred speck squatting with variable mischief
some black dreg huckster, loused libertarian
forever swimming the edge of infinity

For he' a toughened drunk, to earn a badge of grit
surviving the savage stage, his brothers fall
from the torturing kisses of toads tongues
the unwanted advances of nightshade Venus
to the unwilling guest in a spiders web
where he's the star in natures dinner theater
and acts the script as the audiences advances
with fanged applause from the carnivorous bourgeois


so, after he's survived being natures punching bag
lived a thrifted life, to full kamikaze glamour
dodging vicarious bullets of toxic luck
he now rests, dying, in unknown senseless peace
he could have gone in silence, to the dark
but he want me to see, to know he was their
For even a fly deserves some comfort
To show life had meaning, to know were not alone



Here's to a memory, with elegiac reverie
The last embers of a victory...for a dying fly