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Friday, August 29, 2008


Incessant buzzing, motor in a noisy fly.
Convulsions, writhing in his agonizing grief.
His legs a-flailing; desperation’s plea,
but stubborn, never letting life to bid good-bye.

My mother always tells me not to waste my mind.
My father always tells me contribution’s key.
My conscience away tells me, “Help the poor and weak!”
My soul permits me peril if I don’t comply.

Sadistic now, I seem a drooling hypocrite,
obsessive over nothing, weak within a fright.

The fly I see, is falling off the sill; he lives.
He’s on his back – again. I find his little legs.
But no, it’s not my fingers guiding him.
My heart is moving, by an orange pencil helped.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!