Poem -

Flies

Death by a thousand nicks
none too deep or long.
A whisper in back rooms
dark plan all along.

Swarms of flies descend with 
chaos on their wings
to spread decay and stench
base of Left leanings.

Like buzzards circling
waiting to devour
the carcass on the ground
thinking dinner hour.

Hear me; oh driven swarms
take heed to this word.
Flies lifespan isn't long
have you never heard?

c.d.m. 5/19/17

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