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.