The ants marched in with the leaves of spring and carried the crumbs of the time we left behind and feasted on what moments we would waste and we would walk the same earth and see ourselves as kings and disregard the gueens below our feet  and disrespect the mothers of our earth for pennies on the hour and throw away a pound of our own blood and bones to sleep safely in our cages and keep the shackles locked tight to mind and ankle and only sing of freedom as a metaphor lost in a roundabout that is out of tune and out of time and wait for the ants to march when the death of our flesh comes to meet the dead stare in our eyes