Slow Progress - from a photograph of a 'sick Angolan child')

A lone fly
creeps pestulantly across
the dry encrusted landscape
of my lips.
In drifting lucidity,
the dehydrated spectre sips
choleric waters
from my eyes.
Hands lay limply,
like esoteric angels,
dismembered
from feverish wonderings.
Whilst intravenous
drips of hope
run dry.
A camera, like
a Cyclopean visage
Blinks.
Through shimmering haze.
I meet its eye,
And there, upon the lens
Am I.
Perfectly composed
In saturated tones
of blue -
I die.