Funeral Of A House Fly

I attended the funeral of a house fly,

Its raven black corpse lay strewn across

My living room floor. The dead house fly

On it's back, its transparent white wings

Kissing the cold floor.

I saw a group of its friends, now

I suppose they might be, or perhaps

At least its acquaintances, the other flies

Buzzing around the corpse,

Humming a rusty and irksome cacophony,

Perhaps they might be lamenting,

I do not know of that, but one thing

I certainly do know. That house fly had been once

Humming around the entire home

On it's own, flapping its wings with

An annoying rhythm, perturbing all around,

Trying to hijack every precious bit of food,

Fluttering on, rubbing its wings on

Every other surface it would see,

And all of this it would do, all alone, yet,

Now when it had come to its death,

I see it surrounded by an exodus of other

Extremely exasperating flies, as though

Wishing to communicate with a dead being,

Attending to its last moments,

Bidding adieu to its short time on the planet.

Aren't these flies really whimsical, you think?

The living house fly, with all its vexatious behaviour

Had been left alone to wander all along,

And now that this being, is no longer alive

It's been visited by numerous house flies.

I attended this funeral of the house fly and,

One thing I can be certain of now,

Death might be a melancholic and grim reality,

Yet, that's the moment when

A lot of wandering souls visit you

To speak of all the things and all the promises

Which should have been spoken of,

When alive.