Flies

I stumble down into the crowd

They Stare. They watch me.

They await to see how quickly I should trip

Their deep eyeless eyes search. They want mine. 

Yet, they do not make a move.

The ground is so smooth, So soft.

I should pet my hands onto the dirt and be lost.

Surely, it would be easier with their eyes behind me.

Should I just give them what they expect? What they feen to see?

No more pressure once I shall press upon the ground.

However, it is not something I often apply-- to please others eye.

I close my heart, I repel their lies.

I loose touch, I push back, I cut ties.

But what shall be my prize? For standing alone amongst such flies.

Always waiting, always watching for me to bend my knee.

-D.M.B.