Like the morning dew,
here
and gone tomorrow:
3 flies lay,
spent
on the
plastic
desktop.
Having seen
them live and
breathe and munch on
dead skin cells;
buzzing now and again
on my face,
strange to see them
immobile,
almost sleeping or in
a trance-like state
It is bizarre,
sweeping them into the
garbage bin,
nestled among the
used tissues:
thinking,
this is what things
come to?
We try to live with a little
dignity, die
with a little
dignity.
Artistic visions,
dreams, and
loves:
sometimes it seems so
meaningless;
yet we carry on,
filling our lives with
things,
as if this will
somehow fill the
hollow restlessness,
or at least cover it,
like a soggy
glow-in-the-dark
bandaid
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson