Trace.

Its a red ant

and an ivory sheet

itching to wrestle ashen needs;

wavering steps

listless feet

one in a million, beating retreat.

Im dictated

to indulge,

serving the helping thrice;

as a slice of tension

toughens the version

all of what is rust,

pales in comparison

I'm equally stressed

lest defeat be impulsive

as that insect

scoops a round,

I play to my strength

which when spelt correct

did once benefit.

A need to win,

lave 'gainst megrim

to squash distaste.

and therefore,

I'm willing,

to make amends as versed,

Whereas its within

celebration,

inaudible claps;

the ant slips away,

dethroned,

my hands are clasped

fingers still stoned.