The Bug

I watch the ladybug cling to freedom. 

On it crawls upon my window, 

minutely trucking along, 

until the sun glimmers just right, 

and the ladybug puts up a fight. 

Sometimes it ticks against the glass, 

like the footsteps of father time, 

eagerly testing its menace;

but sometimes it clinks!

so loudly against the glass that I concur, 

maybe that's the sound of pure failure. 

And I wonder while watching the most magnificent bug, 

is it more humane to let it clink and chink and think

that it'll make it to a freedom known impossible by me, 

or is it my duty to kill it and so it'll never know how futile

its cause had always been?

Is this how god feels,

watching the plight that only humans can achieve,

only to know that one day all those around them will grieve?