Musca Domestica

Wonders I have yet to see...
Paths I have yet to tread...
lives I have yet to live...

Like you care, living, walking, and seeing as you do. My life has no more notoriety then a fly, yet a wise man can say a thousand things about Musca Domestics.
So do I buzz in your ear? Spread the filth that you spread?
I can live my life on an ounce of garbage, but I gorge myself on the lives you threw away.
I see with a thousand eyes, in a thousand spectrums, and they all show your failure.

Taste and touch forever melded, with nothing but filth and slime to fill the void.
My day lasts an eternity, each breath, each heartbeat, one of my last.
I die with the sun, touching, seeing, hearing, everything that you've done and I laugh.

A thousand lives burst forth from a thousand eggs, each a thousand deaths, lives without any depth or hope of any greater purpose. Does that make you happy? A thousand times a thousand lives without meaning, nothing more then birth, ingestion, excretion, decay, entropy, and death. A phoenix without the fiery rebirth. A true death is nothing more then the truth.

What is memory to the dead? Broken wings and twisted legs are meaningless to the soul. What is a hollow shell to a soul?
Or do the dead grieve the loss of their limbs?
Would you?
Do you?
It doesn't matter, what of death? It's the fear of the thing that kills, that murders the weak and sickly, believe me I know. I've followed the spirits and seen the blood. Oh the blood. Thats why I come, thats why I endure the pain of death that bellows around the dieing like grey robes, and those shells they leave behind, so full of that wet red liquor and soft yielding flesh, is perfect for a being like me; a being of opportunity.
Breath is golden, and I've given lungfulls for those that have died and they've given me worlds of pleasure for that taste of life.

so many broken lines of life, interrupted, ripped and torn from flesh and blood.
only a fly can see them all.