A buzz circles the dim-lit room,
aimless, weaving through stale air,
where a single shard of sunlight
paints its fractured light on the wall.
The housefly lands on a bottle cap,
sticky with yesterday’s sugar residue,
its wings humming, a microscopic machine
unaware of the feverish hands nearby.
A lighter clicks under trembling fingers,
and the air thickens with invisible fuel—
an unseen fuse twisting toward the edge
of what everything here will become.
When it happens, the room exhales fire,
the glass shatters into constellations,
and the housefly, weightless and eternal,
rides a tide of burning air upward,
its tiny body carried into the chaos,
a brief silhouette against a red bloom,
until it’s nothing, just a memory
of where it might have landed next.