Little flies buzz against the window,
burning in this summer heat.
They scream with all that they've got left,
only to find they've been beat.
And the spiders slide in on their silk,
hands closed as if to pray for a meal.
Sky is blue behind these dirty windows,
something in this world ought to be real.
Time bleeds down my well-worn clocks,
five minutes late, two minutes ahead.
Understand now, dear reader,
you can truly breathe when you are dead.
