Fly buzzing at my window, crawling around
inside the frame, cannot see that the window
is open, keeps trying to penetrate through to
his own image in the glass. Like that fly, I
frame my limitations, then crawl around them,
beat bravely at them, until I fall exhausted,
broken on my framed excuses.
Fly's vision is small, cannot see outside the
limits of the window, I do not want to see
outside, would rather keep hitting and bumping
my head against the image of my self-imposed
limitations. Self-styled iconoclast, I set
out to smash it, yet knowing that I cannot, I
finally break myself on myself.
Fly can see through the glass but not around.
Always trying to break through into an illusion,
I too will never go around. Needing the illusion,
needing limitations not limits, needing something
reflecting me, something resembling me, I am
finally knocked into unconsciousness by my own
Fly is not reflected by the open sky, a speck in
infinity having no area, no size. I too find size
only inside a frame.
Only on the glass
even as on a pin
can we be placed