because the lines aren’t giving up
not until the voices stop
a long queue much like a road
where the ants bring their food
naturally, they prick your toes
even the itch does stay
until an anthill builds,
half-full of dirt;
somebody saw a mountain
looking from a broken window;
an art piece maybe?
how much of what is painted
gets mistaken for the real thing?
was there a view behind the frame
or a pile of virtual beauty
built over layers of fractal sorcery?
a world is boiling over molten words
shots of life to spice things up
and flames slowly dying underneath
the burden of the pot getting harsher
by the minute, the embers cackle
in fright, fighting
the dark, the cold and the damp;
eyes, keep awake;
sleep and the soup turns sour
that one has to start over
after lukewarm left-overs
waiting to be consumed;
burns stay awhile
even leaving a scar;
and remember how we share
the same things
that keep us alive.
This is the #potd poem of the day.