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Hopes InnumerableHopes innumerable lie twisted on the darkened pathDeformed, misshapen,In their final embodiment.Some, white, stand out against the grime, gleaming as of lost beacons.Others may be seen only as abrupt swells in the way, their color being perfect camouflage.The road is being peopled.More distraught forms now line the walk, sinuous in their ghoulish curves.Every moment more are added, some white, some dark, none in the proper shape.As of a single creature they moan in their collective misery, the newest stillWith an image of the could-have-been, the elders out of habit.The very youngest of the horde, before being supplanted,Reach and grasp desperately with whatever apendages they possessAt the pure, idyllic forms which float tauntingly before their eyes...and pull them downInto the mutual misery and teach them to grasp at shadows of what yet might be.Later, off to the side of the black pit of a path, a single form will take shape.It is not deformed.It is not grasped
MarshDeputy marshall Washank was in charge of the bog.He usually sat by the bank,Thinking grand thoughts,But doing nothing.The mosquitoes loved him.While he sat, eyes closed,Frogs ate flies, then drowned,While newts looked on.Old Washank sat there day after day,Slowly rotting into nothing.And the frogs kept drowningUnder his unwavering, unseeing gaze.
Ants on a LogAnts,Small little black ones,Scurrying across the kitchen floor.They've found something.I must have dropped a piece of candy,Or spilled a bit of soda yesterday.There they go,Racing over the ceramic tileTo grab a piece of sugary goodness.Then, back along the tiles, under the door,And out into the yard.They can slow down, now;They're in the grass.I can see their home from the window.It's an old, rotting log from an old rotting tree.Its surface simmers and roils with the multitudeOf little bodies that traverse the wood.It almost seems to be alive.Come to think of it, it is alive.Slowly, almost imperceptably, it wriggles toward me.Unsure, I stand there,Thinking I may have simply imagined the movement.But, alas, I was correct the first time.The log is now a gelatinous creature bent on my destruction.Was it that small anthill that I crushed last week?Or the scout ant I smushedWith the newspaper?Did I trod on a nest?Have I disturbed your larva?!"Uh-oh...oh