An army of quiet red ants slips,
slithering through this arid torn;
in twelve harmless beatific minutes,
slaying a day already woebegone.
These ants are as glad as a clam,
promenading across the marble floor;
spoiling my inebriated claptrap,
for now I can't pretend to ignore.
As they sink 'neath the stills, witless,
in movement - sedate and wintry;
my chary reasoning is nonchalant,
whistle-stopping 'em out of misery.
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