Words pour into the brain,
like ants in line, in unison.
They creep into grey esoteric valleys
in solitary words,
groups of phrases,
mobs of sentences,
in unashamed, circles of confusion
when disturbed.
They frisk for potential,
in pheromonic thought trails,
treading tiresome journeys,
to find dead ends.
They are no fools,
these workers;
they persistently diagnose end to end ,
albeit unproductive .
They are but transformers,
for, a line of fruitful thought
gets them marching –
once again connecting, correcting
and scenting lines to woo the Harvestor –
weave their focal plots in her,
stack, store and prepare to nurture
in their new, pivotal role.
In this vicious circle,
they procreate tomorrow’s children,
in fruits of her majesty’s onerous labour,
hatching harbingers of fresh ideas,
to migrate intoxicated terrains,
and carry on the legacy
of toil, sweat and sweet success.
Great poetry!