The Fly (a sonnet)

A captive fly rebounds upon the glass,

Transparent pane half open to the sky,

Minuscule wings drum a panicked tattoo,

Frantic just to live, and not to die.

A futile thing, it seems, to human eyes,

Brief lifetime sped up and lived apace,

We’ll never know what stirs insectile brains,

Or comprehend expressions on its face.

A fly upon its own is just a bug

Seemingly without a greater scheme,

A human stands alone, unless in time

They realise a common goal, or dream.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s