It’s remarkable how now free, I am still in debt,
My soul mourns for its lost raison d'être,
I take steps to distraction for my neurosis to be pacified,
Though even when I convince myself I’m happy, my heart knows I lied.

I flit like a mayfly from diversion to recreation,
Doing what I can to survive this amputation,
Yet in a mayfly’s tiny existence what good are the stars,
Having seen the moon once, it’s brilliance would dominate his memoirs.

From the chaos which ensues a method can be gleaned,
A rhythm lying hidden in the embittered cacophony of my quarantine,
Nature abhors a vacuum, so the mayfly toils to fill it,
That space where once before love and contentment would sit.

The search yields many temporary results,
Momentary pleasures, suffocated by the loss in which he is still engulfed,
Ever looking, I find no release, only opiates,
It is evident now what I seek wears your face.

Flickering lights bring the mayfly to flights of many miles,
Yet he has only to look up to see beauty he can never reach despite all his wiles,
So it is that I arrive, at moments where I think I am happy once again,
Only to be haunted by your spectre, an eraser taken to a page I wish were written in pen.

It is obvious you were fine art, that my search is for your counterfeit,
But it’s impossible to find a counterpart, you and only you does your description fit,
And so the Mayfly at last looks down and speeds to his moon reflected in a lake,
He flies downward, ecstatic, not knowing it’s the last breath he’ll likely take.




The Mayfly is the shortest lived insect in the world, averaging a lifespan of 24 hours.