We are born from garbage.
From rot, from ruin.
White, wriggling, eyeless things—
chewing what others abandon.
Some of us die without reason.
But still, we thrive.
God made us, they say.
For what?
We don't know.
We eat.
We molt.
We grow.
We sprout wings—thin, trembling, stained by filth.
We drink from sugar water.
We escape death by inches.
We zip through windows, dart between fingers,
and die on the sill.
Humans gag at our touch.
Swat us with hate,
curse us for being born.
But still—we fly.
We mate.
We die.
And no answer ever comes.
What is our purpose?
What does God gain from our wings?
We were born.
And we fly until we fall.
That is all.