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Bugs.
Gazing down upon them
insects, maggots
so small and fragile
worms, beatles.
Thinking of how life is for them
crawling, squirming
dodging attacks from us
wiggling, creeping.
How small their voice is
screeching, whispering
their pleas never to be heard
whistling, howling.
Moving through their home of dirt
disgusting, horrid
their beings never cleaned
slimy, filthy.
They live with us
quietly, faithfully
and will always be near till the end
longer, forever.
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