You lie there

[Zeniyama]

This is a response to the Emily Dickinson poem "I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died" that I wrote for English class.

An extremely chipper poem, I know.

You lie there,
Old friend,
Quitetly -- Prostrate
In your bed.

The faces,
Grotesque and distorted:

Marred by pain
They look at you,
But you cannot see
To see them
Again.

The light has left
Your eye,
And Pale Death
Has brushed
Rosy Life
From your cheek,

And the only bit
Of life
Upon your entire being
Is a humble fly;

Softly whispering
Its droning tune
Into your ear.

I'm never sure about my poetry so I'll let you all be the judges of it. I didn't feel as though I expressed myself as freely as I would have liked to, and feel as though the entire thing is contrived and unimaginative, but I'm always extremely critical of myself.