You’re Never Safe from What You Are

This shiny bug in the grass
Should not be called exquisite
Or anything poetic

As a term on its own terms.
This bug should be called vicious,
A predatory machine,

A monster in its dirt world.
Machined, absolutely, yes,
A bug of adaptations,

But not exquisite, precious.
It trundles along to feed
On any thoughts it can steal,

Which could include other bugs,
Which could include your ideas.