Sermon of the Flies

Buzzing in circles of rot, a sermon whispered in vibrations, tiny wings gnawing holes in silence, debating truth on the tongue of decay. Every carcass becomes a cathedral, each maggot a philosopher’s stone, reason stitched in fragments of skin, logic dripping with sour sweetness. The fly knows eternity, a second stretched into infinity, its thoughts written in spirals of hunger, its answers buried in the meat of time. There is no question, only the endless orbit of wings. There is no conclusion, only the body, and the feast.