We have flown into this sticky temptation, its mouth wide and welcoming,
like wasps after cider,
more and more,
till the jar is full.
But the cork is in place,
the invisible walls are impassable
and we will not turn back.
We buzz, frantic wings humming,
beating these frail bodies, again and again,
against the unyielding truth.
Or stick, tar-coated, in the black dregs.
©2014 Fliss Watts