My window ledge
Is a graveyard.
Black, shriveled flies
That flew and tried
And failed to smash
That slightly grimy
Window pane.
A world of pain
As the sunlight
Baked them
While they died
Of hunger.
Hungering to live
Just a bit longer,
Bourne through the air
On thin-veined wings.
Winged onwards by hope
To escape a suffocating
Death from a claustrophobic
Room with little light.
Light, long legs
Tucked against the
Buckling, black body
Convulsing on my window ledge.
A battle ground for
Desperate, dirty flies
Who long to live
For open blue skies,
Hot summer days,
And rancid, rotting meat.
Longing to live
A little while
Longer.