Bug Life

Nasty little Bellevuites.

Furry little buggers.

Scurry, scurry, scurry

To and fro,

Here and there,

Ever silent,

Ever selfish

Ever envious of what they are and what they will never be.

Is it hard work?

Eating your own?

Is it difficult?

Committing your own little genocides?

I would imagine so.

Heads down and claws out,

You work, work, work,

Towards some unattainable goal,

Towards some obscure sort of personal fame.

"Don't worry," I'm told,

"Those screams are normal."

They'll subside.

It's feeding time,

And supplies are running low.

From my post I hear the slurping and chomping,

The biting and the chewing and the gnashing of over-sized, malnourished teeth;

Malnourished by choice.

The smell of blood wafts over

Kissing my nostrils,

Tempting my senses,

Creepy crawling down my throat.

"See what you could have," I'm told

All of this,

This empire of Gold and of Silver and Green and of Black and of all things Beautiful.

As tempting as the scent of blood can be,

I turn away.

I'm not cut out for bug life.