The Flies

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I can’t listen to the buzzing of the flies anymore.

No one finds them pleasing,

But every time I hear them now,

I start gasping and wheezing,

Coughing, crying,

My lips start drying,

My brain starts frying.

With every flying of those flies,

Another part of me dies.

They all lie.

They say its fine,

That its different this time.

That The flies don’t bite anymore,

That the war is done.

“Its ok.

Go outside and have fun,” they say,

But every time I play,

I have to wipe a tear away.

I have to hide, and cover my face.

My fate is at the mercy of these flies,

Because these flies don’t spread disease.

They spread you.

Across the fields lay strewn chunks of flesh they bit but never chew.

I have no doubt.

Peace is not what these flies buzz about.

When the flies sting, it’s with hellfire.

When the flies buzz around overhead,

They are watching, waiting to feast on footage of those soon to be dead.

Their eyes are lenses.

Their wings don’t flap.

Their buzz is a motor,

Their blood is sticky and black.

I can’t listen to buzzing of the flies anymore, ever since I was four

And I saw my father,

My aunt, my brother and my mother get stung.

The hum of the flies is death.

I can’t listen to the buzzing of the flies anymore.

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