Ants

out they go
each day
in droves to slash, and cut
the bok choy
of other countries

marching triumphant
home with green
to the armpit stinking bowels
that hum with the gears
of underground vaults
and their ancient
droning manifesto

each sun, each morn
new reports come in
death
has claimed another soul
and forensic analysis
explains
funerals interrupt monotony

this one by age
or tired bones, that one
from the cruelty of
other insects
still,
march they out,
reducing leaves to snips
of manageable size

each night the kingdom
sighs a reprieve
exhausting dank immortal bellows

each day, in love,
with the tickled birds, and
forever flustered
trees

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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