A Fly A fly, Coming through the open window, Uninvited, winged monster, Darkly clothed, And landing on my paper. Its legs, thin and crossed, Become linked And, inked, To the page. As I write a story About elements, Seemingly, Unnecessary, In all creation, Like the fly, And the mosquito, Touching, The dead, And the living, And leaving, In the end, A bloody mess, Of scraps and bones. By Bernard Demaere