HARVEST OF THE ANTS

Heavy with baldness are the chances,
chances I stir to speak of in this forest of gods.
As I sickle the bats along,no ashes
no sand must throttle my pens my rods.

No waterfall on this heath. I watch water as
it sways upward the hill. Still, the super ants
atop cast down cobwebs to thirst pleas,
armed for harms are gatekeepers with tithes.

All hobos serve well but wages
denied them. At base, all tricks to climb the hill
war little beetles, as the giant strangles
fates bricking throats beyond the land the hill.

A giant with loads of honey on canker hooks,
belching the sweating harvest of the little .
My outcry ever cries their riddles in zillion books,
if groves do not break and goad them like cattle.

Hills that tensions the duels of guerillas.
It's a power of likes to thief league cake in colony.
So the least cake owners birth above the Atlas,
though their kids and all flock cattle groggily.

I'm the spoken saint that kills with prayer,
never sleep me in sanctuary to awake your
madness in mortuary. Soon I beg God to spatter
your conscience on bench for rapture.

©hollamyte