Is not the insect on this tree
Happier than me?
He will live and die
In this wood
As I pass by pondering on love.
He knows naught of sorrow,
Or poets who rhyme of borrowed time
And a tomorrow
That may never come.
He leaves his mark on decaying bark
And knows not why.
While I leave this brief rhyme behind.
I
Wish that the fly
In the ointment would die,
But worry it will turn into a bee
And sting me.
I
Conjured up the fly.
It grows in size
Which is no surprise
For those who feed
Flies, find they breed.
Man sews
A poisoned seed
Called want, not need
And goes
In search of flies to feed.
Fly, you are one of god’s creatures tis true, but must you plague me the whole day through? Must you make that buzzing sound? That infernal noise doth my thoughts drown! Take my advice and go away, before I reach for the fly spray!
Fire burns.
The moth to the flame turns.
Humans can discern. Yet to the pyre we turn.
Will we ever learn?
K Morris - Poet 