Grumbling toward enlightenment,
there is movement in this whine;
it is not as loud as yesterday,
not screeching down my spine.
I’m making room for silence,
for the buzzing flies to still
but they make insistent music
on my nearby windowsill.
They are trapped and hot and bothered
and they want the nerve to fly,
but although the door is open
they can’t seem to find the sky.
Swatting doesn’t kill them,
it just makes them mad as hell;
feeding them just seems to be
a useless plan as well.
But sometimes they are quiet
as I breathe and don’t complain,
and their iridescent wings provide
monotonous refrain.
Grumbling toward enlightenment,
there is solace in this pain,
there is quiet from the might-have-been,
and moisture in the rain.