Sonnet CXV

Existing for a breathless while,
the Fly, with no name but its own deceit.
Detested. Flying many weary miles.
Escaping cold inside to human heat.
And when the sunset dawns - Fly’s folly – vile,
enticing it to go outside to meet
unhappy chills, which wears down all it wiles –
but all that meets the window pane are feet.

The Fly must stay inside, subject to fate.
What fate but death? A promising result.
And chased to all wit’s end, the Fly still flies.
Exhausted, onward bound, pursued by hate.
Then beckoned by the light from all tumult,
it fries. The charred meat roasted in the night.