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The Holy Flies
The Holy Flies
they are a-speaking
tell me, “die die!”
“Get off this mortal coil!”
And me, I stop the leaking.
Remind me of the white fires
when they once danced across;
into the opening, the void of today,
I will travel ‘cross the white fires
And into the night.
My journey has come to an end
the life of free-flowing nature, undead
Break the cycle!
Sequence no more!
And Fade.
The Holy Flies are dead.
The leaking continues still.
I did not stop it.
And in my hand I hold their instrument of death:
A flyswatter.
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