Air abuzz with whorls of
black fog, thick diesel smoke
composed entirely of
highly aggressive horseflies.
He has arrived,
the infestation.
Mandibles gnashing,
fitting perfectly,
purpose built like lock and key,
into exposed skin.
A manifestation
of discordance,
the smell of carrion.
They land in your hair,
flap beside your ears,
brush against your arms.
Their presence felt
even when you don’t feel them
somehow elusive,
and ever-present
at once.
The morning star looms
in the dawn.
I bat the flies away,
but that only seems
to anger them.
Chaos for the sake of it.
How do we know
when evil has lost,
when evil has no plan?
The File Pile 