The black fly sits on the windowsill
His small wings buzz and invite me close
He patiently waits to see if I will.

He tells me things that I shouldn't know
Forbidden secrets from long ago.

He flies around and lands on the screen
Paints a picture not meant to be seen.

Attention drawn to crumpled pages
He rolls in ink and writes for ages.

Expecting to see nothing left bare
I find only one word written there.

The fly had written just one word"Dream"
If he had left me with nothing more
It's that things aren't always as they seem.