Back in January seeds started flowing
From the balcony.

On Sunday we read
The poems of the deaf and
Watched the matches stumble
Drunkenly through the darkness.

In March my hips began to
Fill out like my mother’s.

A monsoon of bullet ants
Waged war along the perimeter of the bath.
I squashed three under my thumb.
Hide, I told them. I have dropped mercy off the edge of the hanging bridge.

In May the stars were soft,
The ants came back to bite me in my sleep.

I tried to clasp your nose to keep you warm
But all the heat had flown from our bodies.
Sacrifices were made along the way.
The ants, admittedly, least among them.

Why do people describe tranquility
As stillness?
There is no stillness
It's just a concept
Your mind concocted

Look around:
The nature is busy
Do you see ants stop?
Do you see birds stand still?
Do you think air stops moving?

If you wait for stillness
You'll be waiting a long time
Find peace in the busyness
It exists trust me
You just need to look for it

He has sensitive teeth, yet 
he sips frigid liquids for 
the same reason he goes out 
of his way to stamp on ants.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

The microscopic ant was trampled by the shoes of the busy human.

All the colony grieved for days, The warriors in anger, the queen in distress, the workers in apathy.

Then one day where the incident occurred.

A witness ant saw the same shoe.

The warrior ants cried their chant, revenge is here for their brother ant.

So, they climbed the shoe and bit, only to be thrown off towards their death.

The pest control was called and the colony was flushed.

And the man who spewed white death sang a tune:

"Here is the fate of those insignfcant things, that tried to take what they thought they deserved"

He laughed and smiled at his job well done.

And looked at what he had done, the colony had died that is for sure.

And his boss called for another job.

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
through
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
her.

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,

right

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
maybe,

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

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

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 <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IsaacBashevisSinger>

Id see that
the remnants
of what once
was fiery blaze
Has now
seemed
to have been smothered.
I would notice
that
there was no movement
on the once
lively log.
That
the home
of the once
peaceful ants
was now
quiet,
empty,
no more.
A mere shell
and
a ghost
of once used to be.

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

Id light the fire.
And id see
the ants
that might have
slept
through
the first calamity,
And i would wish them the best.