The fly makes his way through the house.
Its tongue, like billions before, is tainting
All it touches. The fly has wings to spread
His mess, and though he has innumerable
Facets to his eyes he cannot see
The swatter coming.
The house surrounds the fly and is sacred.
As the great blue world beyond is sacred.
And the fly is spreading fast, flitting here
And sticking there trampling his own
Shelter, spreading pollution and excrement
With a rolling tongue
That spews and spits upon his own home.
And though he is happy while he soils
His house his eyes are two dead worlds
Barren and still, born to die by the hand
That flies even higher, so, the fly cannot
See the swatter coming.
Buzzing, like a burn, through the innocent
Air he dreams of vast minions rooting
His world with legion hands. The house was
A garden that led him in, he cannot
Wait for his seed to fester, all's he needs
Are God’s green plants
And clean water, some fresh air to conquer.
This house was made for him he would have
Himself believe. But when all has dried
And all is soiled the fly would wish to move
On, if only he could, trapped as he is
In the earth and wooden house.
He could taste it all, oblivious to oblivion
In God’s green wooded world— all spinning,
The sands are running in the sacred home
That he himself has always defiled,
As he has never shown any grace;
The swatters hand is His—
Own spendthrift hand.