One Ants Lost Roon Poem by James McLain
One Ants Lost Roon
It's the nights heat,
no wind, brushes my face,
dark is this path, to feel with one toe,
as it brushes back and forth.
Pace is awkward,
slow as the exoskeletons
of many ants lost in, sheets of time, the
many of the once,
are freed to feed the wells
uncertain past, as the few
that are left, carry that which it is, sight less, deaf
always helpless, back into it's void,
to bath in an ocean of ink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/26/2024 2:29:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Were all really like an amoeba in the universe.