The Fruit Fly

The idea of a ripened fruit, one that has yet to be touched or penetrated, tempts the fruit fly.
A seasoned fruit might taste sweeter and last longer, but ultimately, the nectar is just the same.
Tart, bitter, acidic, pulpy, merely moist, or drenched, the fruit fly doesn’t discriminate. 
While some might masquerade as something more exotic, it just doesn’t matter to the fruit fly.
Ultimately, it is drawn to the same souring rot, regardless of its potential disguise.

The aroma of the sweet honey that awaits all too easily fools the fruit fly.
It will travel great distances and encounter dangerous predicaments for just a single bite.
It is attracted to…rather it is obsessed with the juices that spill out of the tight confines.
An individual entity, bonded by pervasiveness, yearning for your mouth-watering fluids. 
It will suck your ambrosia until nourished, and then it will continue to suck some more. 

It’s the fulfillment of a lifelong dream for the fruit fly to gorge on your tasty liquids.
The fruit fly will jeopardize its life just for the opportunity to nibble on your sweetness.
Though susceptible to fatality during its quest for bliss, the fruit fly desires nothing else.
The chance of sampling your saccharine syrup far outweighs the possibility of obliteration.
The fruit fly’s mission in life is simple…find fermenting fruit and feast.

What we’ll first do to achieve that perfect taste, and then what we’ll do to acquire something far, far less.

Written in 2013

Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser