Plague Flies

Beneath the sound of wings, we know there is only silence.

Plague flies

Jitter in that mysterious concave

Just behind your eyes

Growing with every blink

Speaking every time you sleep.

Their wings thrum with each decision

And their disease spreads through blind inaction.

The dead are fed to the living

And living carcasses shamble

Through streets and cubicles

Through offices and schools.

They live in every seething, decaying corner

Of this midway between reality

And our idea of a perfect world.

But no story ends here.

Eventually there is nothing left

To feed upon.

There is only silence.

They lay their eggs where apathy lies

And suffocate a guilty conscience

With layers upon layers

Of self indulgent moral superiority.

Beneath the fresh meat, chambers of rot.

Beneath the facade of normalcy, an Other

Masquerading as human heart and mind.

You see, image prevails

Even through the muted, blurry lens

Of an insect's eyes.

Because beneath the sound of wings

We know there is only silence.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed