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Bustle Bugs

Bustle bugs upon grass rugs,
Creeping spirits sweeping the floor,
Humming my name
You softly proclaim,

"What was is no more."

Somewhere aside this mortal pride,
A mental cell programmed well before,
Lies the domain,
Where you remain,

"Can you find the door?"

Hurried insects have no worried intellects.
Words cannot name how we are same,
But a buzz brought by wing,
Says everything.

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