DEATH OF A FLY
- Dark Poets Club
- 3 days ago
- 1 min read
By Raymond Jones
Held fast, I heard your wings creating a
sea of quickening struggles,
sad plaintive noises streaming horizontal
across a silken orb and berries hanging
in the pyracantha.
Death's moving quick with desire, to
mummify, bite, paralyze, liquefy the feckless.
After the pitiless bite, liquification,
fly will taste good to her.