The Lives of Flies

Two flies were sitting on a wall. One said,
"It won't be that much more until we're dead."
The other stared at him a thousandfold,
Responding idly that three days is gold.
"What would any insect do with more?
Four days even would become a bore.
We only sit on walls and land on food,
Which then we take back to our home and brood.
Now shush, the game is on again." With that,
He buzzed on down to where the snacks were at.
The first fly tried to stoically embrace,
Indifferent or resigned, his lowly place.
No matter what, though, still his spirit filled
A larger field than what his lifespan tilled.
Some desperate escape he tried to find,
Such musings filled up all his lack of time.
He brought out his alembic and his athanor;
He didn't know his friend was soon no more.
He meditated in a mass of poses;
Twelve generations looked upon their Moses.
He sank down into knowledge of the ages,
Passing lives as if they were mere pages.
The world outside he scarcely even saw,
Engrossed upon his labors still to draw
Another mark into his line of life.
Uncounted flies went by in love and strife.
It might have been a day for all he knew,
So bothered by how little he could do.
And times again it was within his grasp,
But long life seemed so awfully hard to clasp.
At length he found his secret, and that was that.
But then a truck came by, and with it splat.