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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Dead Flies

Where the sun never rises,
above my bed.
Chandelier sun.
Sky without clouds.
Below an incandescent star
is opalescent glass
through which the light comes,
and there,
I see the crypt of flies,
invisible until the light goes on.

Small, black bodies desiccated,
unnoticed until the gray twilight
of rain outside
causes the attention of the mind
to linger,
to see a place among places,
where things pause
and never wake.

Where flies rested for the night
and I see their dark end.
So I rise, not a fly,
but no less immune to fate.
We sleep, and sleep gone by,
we end.
Flies in a crypt of light,
a moment, and then wiped away.

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