The Fly
By Matthew Grode •
As I lie in quiet contemplation,
A simple fly breaks my concentration,
I watch his pattern but I find none,
For in his mind there is no direction,
He is constant noise but for what cause,
He searches his mind but it is blank,
Must continue for the noise is calming,
From place to place with no destination,
Not happy unless moving,
He shall have no rest,
Why must his life have no purpose,
Why so small in a world so vast,
My thoughts of pity turn to humiliation,
As I am struck with this harsh realization,
I am the fly