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David Amato Jan 9
Cold air.
Wind punches the door ajar,
To reveal a humongous room.
This room consists of many individuals,
Some well aware of their surroundings,
Others not so much.

People proceed down a narrow passageway,
To board a plane to a new place.
Excruciatingly hot turbines.
High pressure doors finally closing.
We listen to the attendants long speech.

The plane finally disembarks!
We see tiny dots from our small windows,
Revealing miles and miles of space between us.
We travel from place to place,
Searching for undiscovered land,
And find just that.
I say goodbye and close my eyes.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License
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lua Nov 2019
the sun rose high in the sky and burned the land beneath it
and i watched a thousand ants
crawling on a butterfly's dying figure
claiming its wings
as it frantically *****, erratic
but ultimately
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
Pythogorean sorts:
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains. 
Ah, now, now

There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
to lashout
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
in this
only race that counts,

first and only, no second place in this race
to pass
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.

All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into

Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.

Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg

and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?

Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,

slow and steady sets the pace,


up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,

pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
complex knot
lock meet for me, the key

in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.

From <>
Shorter breaths, longer steps
L Sep 2019
Id see that
the remnants
of what once
was fiery blaze
Has now
to have been smothered.
I would notice
there was no movement
on the once
lively log.
the home
of the once
peaceful ants
was now
no more.
A mere shell
a ghost
of once used to be.

I would see
And without a thought,
i would
once again
set the log ablaze.

Id light the fire.
And id see
the ants
that might have
the first calamity,
And i would wish them the best.
Amanda Noel Jun 2019
The ant works all day,
limits time for rest and play,
focuses on his path,
hoping others do the same.

Seasons change and weather strains.
Now he works even harder,
struggling through the rains,
finding ways to climb, collect, connect.

His heart is persistent,
knowing life will return.
Allowing him to feed into that fire,
until it burns,
to walk through each day,
to let the cares and worries evaporate.

So, even though he sometimes feels,
like an empty shell,
zombily following the path his mind has grown to remember.

living prospective,
never seeking a new perspective,
rarely pausing to realise his size...
And the magnitude of the space around him,

He's content in the end
with the mound he's helped build.
Adding another grain of sand,
to the cosmic infinite field.
A grain of sand
Basil Watkins Jul 2019
One of us.
One of us.
One of us.
One of us.
Jason Drury May 2019
In seeing,
as a child,
breathing blinded.

As we fail to remember,
what we want,
and need at that moment.

We are greedy as ants,
following the path,
striving for the same leaf.

We are small,
humbled by blue sky,
and the night stars.

Only then we remember,
who we really are.
Poetress2 Apr 2019
Anteaters eat Ants.
How can they taste the small Ants,
their delicacy?
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