I flew like a feather through
Life; sniffing beauty I rarely believed to be true.
I kiss the nectars cooped between whorls of silk
Pick grains your father, my creator, spreads for me…
I work hard
Though I don’t enslave myself doing things the things
He never wished I do.
Am the birds of the field.
I could be a varying shade of scents and nectars,
I could be a scene your eyes would race through for hectares.
Your father, my creator, clothes me,
But I draw up water for myself.
If I fail,
I’d wither.
Mr Word Spreader,
May I call you Tse-tse story;
You claim promises but make a mockery of conditions.
Wake up and come to my hills and
Your eyes will behold my mansions,
The food I gather in your wasteful days;
I Have a barn,
I have no farm.
I follow your road map.
I.work.hard.
Maybe Mr Ant is the name you know.
©Symolean
