Dead fly on my January window sill
Your legs still twitch at the sun when it pulsates
As if the sunlight still awakens the receptors
In what we would call a brain

Laying down on what we would call the back
Looking up at the ceiling
No real pain appears
You just mechanically twitch

As you were supposed to die months ago
When winter would heave its gout
Instead this artificial environment
Slowly kills you

43. A piece about two creatures, of whom one is normally prey to the other. 4 pts.