So easily crumpled,
Yet happily unaware.
My eyes would always see
A thousand things at once,
None of them making any more sense
Than what I see right now.
Similar to myself,
Living for the sake of living.
Constantly confused about
The things the giants do.
Except I could fly.
And my diet would be simple.
Need-based; no overconsumption.
I, like my babies' babies,
Would be born in shit.
No fanfare.
No parades for simple miracles.
I'd have simple fears.
A part of a chain,
Is a nice thing to be.
Even below my predators.
I could taste the air.
Plus I'd have a short life-span.
And never outlast my welcome.
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