Bugs

My place in this world is insignificant.

I wander, dazed, beneath heavy footfall,

I shelter under trees, a single blade of grass.

Bugs do whatever they want.

Right now, there are fifty beetles on my sunflower stalk,

Writhing,

All orders atop one another,

Doing whatever they want.

I am not bothered.

Bugs go wherever they want,

Trails of ants traipsing through my yard,

I can follow them until I'm dizzy from looking down,

But I can't find the Queen and snuff her out.

Nor do I care to.

For bugs are bugs, and we are little but boiling biology.

My cells make me up like all others.

Bugs and I are insignificant against the cell of our cosmos.

If one doesn't care what bugs do -

why then should they care of me?

Bugs and I are free;

Walk among us.