The Fly

The Fly

The fly flew in unafraid. Smartly as a dart, in a peculiar way. 

Did he have something important to say, this fly who flew upon my page.
He did not appear to beg or grovel as I read my novel - 
only looked and hooked upon my eyes. Could he be a prophet in disguise?

Nearly at my finger, there he did linger. Had he brave words to say?
His purport I could not gauge. Enchanted, without rage, I dared to engage.
I hoped and prayed he'd have no remorse, if we shared some discourse.
With hands steady and breath held low, I curiously offered a Hello.

While I waited, hoped and prayed, a wind blew in upon the page.
Without a shrill or trill the statue stood still, unafraid upon his stage.
No words did he share, in his lipless stare. Was he really there?
I may not impress, no matter the manner I address, a fly whose eyes play chess.