Another poem.... Seems to be my non-sonnet week!
When I was about 4 years old,
and the world stretched in front of my curious eye,
Innocent, amazing and simple- reassuring as the pale blue sky.
I stood at my balcony,
still struggling my little hand the edges to reach
and watching day in and day out
The march of the red ants, their silent screech,
to a little anthill they had carved in the wall,
A refuge for winter, and the two week fall.
They walked all day collecting morsels of dead insects
and anything they could find-
collecting and cherishing as connoisseurs do wine;
years of patience and solid determination,
desire, motivation, focused hard work, deliberation
modeling all those values self-help books instill, and innately
sure formulae for success, and fame, stately
One day, as they marched along towards their "success",
I pulled them all out with a thin brown stick
and dissolved their long stored food into a little yellow mug,
Then poured it down the drain-
A four year boy rendering years of work futile -
years sewn from millions of impatient minutes
with the thread of hope and perseverance, undying enthusiasm-
all in vain now!
And years later, as I see you today,
I feel like the ants once did
Unable to get my shattered dreams rid.
Unable to remain. Frigid.