A5XCB9T1YT0TA
they run around looking for patterns
those blasted ants should
be happy they even have bread to eat
with their miserable tithes
of palm tree leaves
they lamentedly wave
to the fleeting warmth of a
yellow moon
with eyes like melting
rotting butter
bleaching the perfect soil
with their ugly mouths
preaching from their flower
waiting, wanting to die
with some nature of a profound grace
that will never
ever
come
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