Indendence suspends it.

As an unimportant fly,
dipped down from the sky.
And it made it's new place,
just above my knee
(just beneath my thigh).
My primary thought
concerned an expeditive swat.
My inconveniences held a mile high
above this pests fragile life.
But not even a square inch,
of my vacant skin.
Before used for nothing,
but now it was a home to him.
Who am I, then, to believe
my shallow comfort more importantly.
Than the air and the spirit
of a single breath,
no tragedy in this minuscule death.

Brother sister, forever may we be.
Open to even the smallest of pleas.
From a bird or a fly,
or the people we see.
Lest we deny the glory and light,
of living in celebration of life.
For if every tongue was created to sing,
and even flies have tongues (I think).
If placing my own pique a grave above,
another's voice created to love.
It must mean there's something wrong
with everything we've learned.
That maybe we aren't all where we deserve
(and we have, we haven't earned).
But there's people on the streets,
who live much longer than a fly.
And many swatted by,
our grotesque new way of life.
Exoskeletons collide
in the gutters where they die.
And something is wrong.
Something is terribly
terribly
terribly wrong.