I’ll do anything to avoid going back to my prose writing. While writing a scene, out of nowhere, the idea of marching ants intercepted my mind. WTH. Ants weren’t even the subjects or in my novel. Where do they come from? And to make things worse, I wrote another one: about a mockingbird.

My subconscious mind has its own mind.

Well, here they are:

The Marching Ants

They are relentless

They are powerful

They are patient

            Waiting and waiting

            Waiting for me to inverse,

I press the delete key

And poof!

The picture of you disappears

            Without a trace

            Without apologies

And yet

The marching ants stay

Waiting for the next command.

 

the price of being a mocking bird

i just returned from the south

a new language I have with me

on the very tallest building I stand, on the chimney

belting my new song at the top of my lungs

i croon

i whistle

i murmur

everything to catch a new friend in sight

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