They crept like gossip through the cracks, Whispering secrets on their backs. Their uniforms were woven scent, Their captains silent, cold, intent.
No border held their whispered creed Their kingdom marched where none decreed. The fences bowed, the gardens sighed, As cities watched with quiet pride.
With heads held low but hearts ablaze, They wrote dominion through the maze. Their feet composed a conquering song That told the earth it won’t be long.
But then they met the other kind, Ants of a rival, foreign mind. The air grew thick with bitter breath As pheromones declared their death.
No trumpets blew, no banners flew, Yet every soldier deeply knew The time had come to break or bleed, To fight for scent, for queen, for seed.
The battlefield a kitchen floor, A garden bed, a pantry door. They clashed with jaws like biting words, Their screams too small for human herds.
The dirt drank deep their tiny cries, The sun looked down with swollen eyes. Leaves stood still and bricks grew tense, As limbs fell limp without defense.
Still onward surged the tireless tide, The fallen left, unglorified. For every ant the war erased, Ten more would rise without disgrace.
Their queens, like gods, in darkness lay, Blind to the bodies swept away. They dreamed of growth, of hungry birth, Unmoved by death, unmoved by earth.
No anthem mourned the ones who died, No tear was shed, no flags untied. The war was breath, the loss was norm, A sacrifice to colony form.
And still they march, through dusk and dawn, Their path unbowed, their sorrow gone. The world beneath your feet is sworn To kingdoms coldly, calmly born.
Beneath the waves where echoes spin, Where silver fins slice deep within, A silent oath the ocean keeps The bottle-nosed avenger sleeps.
It knows the face, it knows the hand, That broke the peace upon the sand. The water whispers, salt and spite, A wound still fresh in fading light.
Like moon-tugged tides that come and go, Vengeance sways but never slows. A debt unpaid will drift, will swell, Like storms that stir the ocean’s well.
The dolphin waits, its gaze like steel, A dagger hidden in the teal. And when the day of reckoning calls, Its justice strikes,no voice, no walls.
But does revenge unchain the deep? Or does it steal what none should keep? For rage is but a fleeting spark, That leaves the heart a hollow dark.
The tide remembers, yet it dies, The waves erase, the sea complies. To hold the past like weighted stone Is to sink and drown alone.
So let the current wash the scar, Not all fights earn the heart a star. For even dolphins know too well, A bitter mind’s a lonesome shell.
The Arctic tern, a thread of white, stitches dawn to dying light, a wanderer upon the breeze, no master’s chain, no land-bound keys.
It drinks the sun, it courts the tide, no border tells it where to hide. No hand can carve the open air, no law can trap a breath so rare.
But here, where rivers turn to steel, where freedom bends to power’s will, the migrant walks—a feather torn, adrift in storms of man’s contempt and scorn.
They chase the spring, they chase the bloom, like terns, they dream beyond the gloom. Yet paper walls and iron bars turn open lands to distant stars.
One soars through sky, one treads through dust, both pilgrims of a wandering trust. Yet only one the world denies— as if the earth could own the skies.
I wonder how the wind reads the wind trails, Whispers in the dust that soften the sails Of trees bent low, their leaves brittle and torn, Cradling the silence of a world reborn.
It carries the desert’s song, harsh and dry, Sweeping the sun from a pale winter sky, Turning each breath into cold, brittle air, The earth cracked open, its skin stripped bare.
Ghosts of the sand dance in endless parade, Swirling through streets where the shadows fade. In the haze of memory, mountains stand still, Yet the wind knows the paths they never will.
It kisses the skin with a dry, bitter grace, Leaving its trace on each weathered face. I wonder if it pauses to recall The warmth it has lost, the rains that must fall.
But for now, it hums through a dust-covered land, A fleeting caress, a harsh helping hand, Guiding the seasons with an unseen thread The wind reads the wind, then carries ahead.
September drifts on languid wings, The sun, a weary traveler, slows, Leaves, like tired coins, begin to spin, As summer’s purse, near empty, shows.
The days stretch out, a golden yawn, A river sluggish in its flow, Afternoons like heavy drapes, That hang in twilight’s sleepy glow.
The air is thick with ghosts of dreams, Of warmth that slips through loosened hands, Time, a spider, weaves its seams, In webs that hold the fading sands.
No hurry in the waning light, September whispers soft and low, A month that stalls between the nights, And summer’s last reluctant bow.
In the midnight mist, where shadows swell, She perches high on the throne of night, Her eyes like ancient embers that dwell, In the ashes of a once-bright light.
Her wings, like whispers in the wind, Glide gently as a secret kept, Like the words we never dared to send, Across the chasm where silence slept.
She hoots, and the sound is a ghostly sigh, Like a breath lost in the cool night air, It pulls me back to a familiar face, One lost in the quiet we both share.
In her I see the friend I knew, Like a mirror held to memories gone, The keeper of truths that slowly withdrew, Like the light before the lingering dawn.
Now, when the night is heavy and hushed, And the world rests like a whispered tune, I wait for the owl’s solemn song, As if it could heal the wound of the moon.
But the silence stays, sharp and sure, Like a blade that sways through tender time, In the heart of night, where the owl flew, And in the silence, I find you.
a k o s i l e 
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