following

A line of ants
each alone
all together
marching without a leader
bumping heads
pheromone trails
leading them
to the sticky-sweet
residue of a
dead mosquito
parasite turned provenance
food for five thousand

A line of people
all alone
each together
marching without a leader
bumping heads
mindless traditions
leading them
to predictable spaces
residue of a
dead school of thought
paradise filled with parasites
food for destruction

increments

One lowly flame in the middle of a dark room
like one novel thought in a sea of mindless tradition
Two bodies wrapped together in a soft skin embrace
like a velvet and silk bowtie on a Christmas present
Three little birds piping through the speakers
like a mother's lullaby, all whispers and comfort and safety
Four o'clock on the small electronic gadget on the nightstand
like a lighthouse keeping guard over calm but dangerous waters