Poisoned Mice

Poisoned mice within my walls

escape as a harvest of slow flies,

mousy death transformed in December

to black, haphazard globules

emanating from stench.

The flies themselves appear poisoned,

flown up from crumbling, dun, little bodies

lying where I most deserve them,

inside walls where they can’t be reached,

producing the stupidest flies ever swatted.

These, my little-desired creations,

are the fruits of destruction returned to light,

fruits destruction returned to stink.

Is this is what murderers get in general,

a doubling of vexation?