It's Still Life

An Overview of a Dead Blow Fly

Who can blame curiosity,
a thousand-eyed perfection.
One of a dark cloud of rot.

Epiphany, as it grows out of
the dust, its own death dust.

Black. Scrawny. Seems to be
looking west, waiting for
the clouds to break.

Legs stiff as wire.
Woody. Brittle.

One dried wing, dislodged,
as if going walkabout with
a moonlight breeze.

Such an empty hollow
of disease. Perhaps

a moment of delirium
before going crispy-dead
on the window ledge.

for NaPoWriMo Day 27:
review something unusual

PA a massive poem . . . working although I’m not hopeful.

©️ Misky 2020 It’s Poem a Day month. These are all 1st drafts.