Even in all your fine regalia,
hint of blue and buzzing wing
all the trappings of your kind,
you are far from being a substantial thing,
and all your efforts end in failure.
All entomic paraphernalia,
proboscis, thorax, abdomen, wings that fly,
six legs, antennae, multi-faceted eye,
are merely dust imprinted with your mind.

And so you flit from fruit to faeces
to satisfy an endless lust,
disintegrate into component pieces
and so revert to where you started, dust.

But even without dust to model
and round a dusty world
you fly, quite formless, from your silent hell
to where the nerve ends of the brain are curled.

You are thought
your body but its shadow;
not from the maggot were you brought,
but from the glow
and from the fire
of still unquenchable desire.

The human here
in all his pride,
gives you sanctuary inside,
eventually emerging to appear
a bold facsimile of you
with buzzing wing and hint of blue.


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