The Agony of a Fly

The fly on the mosaic cross screams to me,
it pleads for death as its final hours are left stuck in a stale room,
with nothing to eat but bread like paper and wine like water.
It rests on the bloody scalp of Jesus as he hangs on the cross.
The agony of this fly became irritating but much more interesting,
than the agony of these wooden pews and boring preacher.
The fly now lands in the bible I recite rusty hymns from,
and as the fly’s screaming and sorrow slows to a stop,
and lays it weary wings on its back again,
I gently close the bible as a coffin for the fly.