From the anthill of my tomorrow
rises a swarm with a purpose
The morsels of my crumbling life
carried by millions of ants

And the workers, who move all their lives
and the queen, that they treasure dear
commence in a foxtrot of death
begin with the dance of the years

And the years hence they go, one by one and so distant
leaving behind all who can't keep up.
And my crumbling life, refuses to be mended together
left behind,
it weeps in the corner