The Fly

It sits there,
On the wall,
Black against sky blue.

It seems to be going no where,
Not even moving, or breathing.
Do flies even need to breathe?

Do they think?
Do they bleed?
Will they go to hell?

Does it make conscious decisions?
Or is it just out of habit?
Nonetheless, it moves it's wings.

A take off,
Beginning,
Nothing to blink at.

It spreads it's delicate, small wings,
Hovers mere inches from the wall,
Just to move closer again.

Can it see,
As it bumps
Back against the wall?

It seems to be blind as a bat,
As it moves down and up that wall,
Looking for the perfect spot.

To land on,
To rest on,
To be still again.

It begins to repeat it's course.
Up and then down, round and then round.
Still looking for that one spot.

Only to land where it started...

It circles,
Just like life
Loops back on itself.

Repeating the same, old pattern.
One big cycle, a large circle.
Propelled for Tradition's sake.