Arts + Scene » Poetry

Fall Fly


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Fall fly, you poor immobile beast,
cool weather has clipped your wings.
No darting, no buzzing like before;
just a quiet hanging out,
life in the fast lane reduced to inaction;
a lurking, a crawling,
perhaps interrupted by a short hop,
but only when disturbed.

But I am disturbed no more.
No stalking is needed now;
no hunting with swatter in hand.
No quick reflexes either;
only a not-too-guilty conscience
which allows me to easily snuff
that same opponent who would have left me
with a sense of accomplishment just weeks before,
now merely another yawn.


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