Letter to a fly (in memoriam)

Strange children trample all the pretty flowers, in memory of
Death, time's parade and master.

An odd song infects termite ridden souls,
they carry their guns like daredevils on camera.

Blood pours from their eyes and ears, these children
these petulant children scream, and scream loudly they do.

Their mission is meager miniscule and marginal
they proclaim, "I am important".

Sadly, all they really do is mumble through a pillow;
these strange flowers bloom at every city grave.