Ants

They wield hearts never-taunted,
ants that climb threads over needles
or navigate numb mines of mayhem…
Obstacles equal not size or length of
excursion, number of days…(what are the weeks?)
…The ants always pressing press on,
hunting, forging beneath, betwixt, o’er,
fastened by gravity but soaring the floor…
they roam and explore, mattered but small,
flashing with company, the ants march on….
With hearts never daunted, hymenoptera apocrita
interminably search the high and down low,
The ants always pressing, they press on
to steadily track for hotter or colder…
Disinclined to a break for breath, they go on
digging the grains of sand, scaling the boulders…
Bearing lives on their shoulders, monstrously strong,
Teeming with company, the ants march on…

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