What good does it do to complain?

The fates are blind to all of us

Look at the winter fly

Dead upon the sill.

 

This morning I swept away three more

Their bodies still intact just their tiny souls departed,

 

Like cars abandoned on the roadside

In a film about the end of times.

 

Sometimes it’s as simple as that,

The best years of your life

Defiled against an unwashed window.

 

Still you persist,

Believing all will be tied together somehow

 

What else? To know that even now

The spider is unlocking itself from it’s station

And stepping lightly this way.