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Nice meter and rhyme.

I assume this is about politics, but I don't know which side you are on or what the cause is. I sense it has something to do with immigration. The "unholy communion" suggests to me that you are anti-immigration. However, the "They greet the uncaring" suggests to me that you are pro-immigration. There is a lot of talk about "freedom" and "justice" and "glory". Every political group sees themselves as the good and the beautiful and the future. They are all the good guys and their enemies are always the bad guys.

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Originally Posted by YesNo

Nice meter and rhyme.

I assume this is about politics, but I don't know which side you are on or what the cause is. I sense it has something to do with immigration. The "unholy communion" suggests to me that you are anti-immigration. However, the "They greet the uncaring" suggests to me that you are pro-immigration. There is a lot of talk about "freedom" and "justice" and "glory". Every political group sees themselves as the good and the beautiful and the future. They are all the good guys and their enemies are always the bad guys.

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Thank you for your thoughts!

Its always interesting to see what sticks to the reader's mind. You correctly picked up on the political theme. Which side this advocates, however, is of less importance. The ambiguity allows for the reader to extrapolate what they need according to their own conviction. I do however hold a strongly subjective opinion that resonates in the piece.

Hello. I posted this as a thread in the Personal Poetry section. I hope it's OK to post it here too. It hasn't received replies yet.

I didn't ask for them to invade my prison-kingdom,
Of zirconium, old oak and iron.
Of wilting lavender on the windowsills.
For years I heard them but didn't see -
The humming of the horse fly, boring
Into the orifice of my brain.
The chord of Lacewings, a storm in membranes.
Insecurities throbbed in waves.

The house fly, especially, nags at you.
Snagging at the fabric of your conscious.
The torturous locust.
Worse still the jab of the bot fly.
The stab of its tongue. A tiny intruder.
Together, they pulled back the calm I constructed,
Baring a flea-bitten body, gasping for air.

They were more urgent then, at summer's end;
When my isolation heightens.
Folding dutifully to the darkening light.
A tireless buzzing under the pillows.
A faint tapping against glass.
Like thoughts continually deferred.
Like lives adjourned.
Drops in a putrid broth.
I simply swatted them away.

And flies flail and twitch terribly when they die,
And they always die by the windows,
Where the air is freshest.
Under the murky glow of the new moon,
All their lives trying,
Unable to get through.