Depriving the Fly

When I step on that fly
am I depriving him?
His last shakes after the swat–

I finish him out of mercy,
thinking it is the right thing,
yet;‎

They say in the most excruciating moment
lives the greatest poignancy,
what pain throes is he having there?
What poetry for the great soul being weaved
in his final moment.
We call it mercy,
but what of pain’s perfection?‎

And what of mine?

If he dies,
am I depriving him?
And what of mine?

And if I die,
what of mine?