Make Art, Not War

Friday, September 2, 2011

Death of a fruit fly

It must be insane to be born.
You have, maybe 3-4 days. 6? 7?
Trapped against a screen in the window
a prison.
And the smell of food, the want of food,
the need for it, driving you.

Out of desperation, you turn back and find the table.
Here rests a glass of juice, but you don't know this
you feel it.
The smooth, cool surface of it's shell
the shape of it's mouth, a perfect circle.
To you, it seems paranormal.

You crawl inside, into its steep walled well, and at the bottom
you find -you're not sure what- but it's food!
It's made of food (and sugar too).
You rejoice!
There is so much of it!
You pull it into your mouth with your little fly hands,
you dive straight in, only to find that now you are stuck.
You suck up what you can and drowned.

And me, I just see things floating in my glass.

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