tagNon-Erotic PoetryBlind as Gloucester

Blind as Gloucester


Even ants can suffer.

Do you think sometimes
our Lord has a bit much
to drink and crashing
upon his table cracks
the plates, twists
that laughing universal
masque to tragic groan,
calls for another glass
until the sea unfolds
itself and we are tossed
into perdition or worse,
something less?

The colony's a mess.

Who cares about the ants,
the roads they build
so carefully, the children
in their nursery and all
the labor, shelter, food;
the haven of a world
is crushed so easily,
Jove is stomping clouds
or putting out a fire
in some celestial grate,
ashes, ashes.

It's child's play,
a wing torn from a fly,
a footprint left behind
so carelessly, the echo
of a voice that shouted
once upon some random,
sunny day.

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byAngeline© 9 comments/ 2128 views/ 0 favorites

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