Bugs on Trees - Megan MacNeel
The armored hide of little tanks
Slowly creeps along
The petrified ridges
Of oxygen factories.
Withstanding the winds of fortune,
Doggedly ignoring
The flapping death of war.
They plunge in their spikes
And keep climbing.
Inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter
The ground bleeds beneath
The constantly moving legs
Of millions.
Everything is constant.
Motion never ceases.
With lives as brief as a candle flicker
The soldiers must march on.
Politics moved them onto the board,
But here in the pawn’s world
There are no Queens.
God has no place here.
Ideals do not exist.
There is only the march of the tanks
And the slow creep up the face of instinct.
Reality: Resurrection!
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