Labor of the Fly

Posted: December 3, 2013 in Poetry
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In this great land I buzz like a fly,

barely audible, barely intriguing.

My home rests under a sky

which most human eyes do not notice.

It is quite a shame how many hours pass by

when I am typing or thinking, when I could be heard.

I see a golden light, and I fly

toward it. It is almost indiscernible at the end of my road,

radiating, a saint’s fallen halo, on the crest of a hill. I may not reach it before I die.

But I am trying, flapping my tiny coppery wings,

my stomach swells with determination. It has taken hold of both my eyes.

I see it now, and move toward that warm, bright, beckoning light.

Somehow I know what it is. I don’t ask why,

I simply know it is one of my goals and fly onward

because I can feel my body beginning to dry,

death sets upon me- a slow and arid disease.

I must reach the light before I die.

That is the only thought on my mind.

To some I may be an insignificant fly,

my presence irksome and my noises unintelligible.

But I know there are others like me who buzz below the sky.

Some may be comfortable where they are,

but not I.

I am flying toward a light that grows larger because I am getting nearer.

Ceaselessly moving toward my glowing ally,

I may be growing weary but I will not stop

’til what I my dreams are recognized, and I find home within the light. Then, and only then, will I say goodbye.


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