Jan Hauck

(June 1,1978)

Lord of the Flies


It is summer again, always that time when
Flies come inside, through windows and doors,
You would think they are trapped
But they are not, forced by instinct,
Power of life, to procreate,

Sweet smells of decay that make them stay
Close to what rots, poisoned and black,
You would think they will die
But they do not, nourished and drunk
They probe me, quietly,

And try to lay eggs, right on my legs,
Hands and feet, looking for flesh,
To feed off the dead is their joy,
They come to me, odd kind of love,
Waving my hand, not just yet.

Submitted: Monday, April 09, 2012

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