The Fly Poem by Inigo Rivera

'Tis the fly my little soul
rushing freely through the void
of air.
'Tis the fly the insect
I so coldly repulse
for I cannot bare its buzz when comes along.
So fragile it is, you see, this poor creature
whose only ambition alone is to be alive
as briefly as possible
in its isolation of lighten blindness.
'Tis the fly the putrefaction's deliverer
and the imagination’s sufferer
in a dream.
'Tis the spider to whom we must pay obey,
for whom I’ll dramatically decay
with my last thrust o’livid wings.
Fools of us who are trapped by her lethal cobwebby reality,
capsulated into the essence of the bitter nightmare
of silky touch.
Her powers are beyond tussle
for she cannot be avoided
nor spared.
She doesn’t forgive
nor let go of her fresh prey
for she’s always hungry
of little, dirty, unworthy pieces of her reign,
as a human being
left alone into the routine’s maze.

We will be devoured
and torn apart by fangs of death,
dreams,
hanging from a silver nature’s miracle.