Alone, the young mosquito seemed to be
This evening on a damp and dying tree
The bug then buzzed a sad soliloquy
That shone his individuality:
“Survival’s not the life that’s fit for me
I want to live a life that’s truly free.”
Yet when he smelt the scent of nutrients
He went towards it without hesitance
The neon glow of food at first seemed odd
But hunger blinded him from this facade
Just when his tasty meal was imminent
He learned he’d flown into imprisonment
His limbs had ceased to move an inch or two
And in a moment his life would be through
Surrounded by dead bugs he seemed to be
This midnight with his bitter dignity
The bug then buzzed a helpless dying plea;
A question maybe meant for you and me:
“How can one’s life be lived all true and free
When one’s belly will cry continuously?”
