Muddled Meditations

Sometimes I sit and wonder.

What it’d be like to be a bug.

To spend all day,

Crawling or perhaps flying.


 

Incessantly searching for,

Whatever it is they need.

Food? Water?

Why even bother?


 

Then,

I realize not much is different.

Between me,

And a little bug.

Our search coincides,

Around that which is inside.


 

Their world, my world.

Both revolve around the same thing.

One tiny life except upright.

Walking, or perhaps running into decay.

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