The anthill in my chest

Ants. Every corner sees their scurrying, their legs as if carried by some current flowing only for them. They run to the sweetness of my fruitful thoughts, and ever more surely as these finish rotting, fertilizing the next harvest. Yes, these adventurous thoughts turn sweet then bitter, as I try to delineate my freedom and trace its future, placing a crystal glass over it and edging it slowly along a heartless path to a breathless end. My torment does not last forever, as I let these mentations loose before they have time to dismember my soul, to let them feed upon the seed of my premonitions: my hopes and, yet more palatable, my frights.

What I see as the ants start crawling all about my skin and underneath it, twirling as lovers do under a duvet, is a landscape where the cobblestones don't know our steps, where the trees don't drink our breaths and where the night, spiderlike, does not spy our kisses with its myriad eyes, nor does it spin our gasps into tiny cocoons to be drunk fully later on. Drink, drink the bitter nectar of my dismay, enjoy it more in knowing its flow shall last only as long as I. I'll feed instead on that interminable vine that grows just out of grasp, let those aureate grapes mature a little more, to sink within reach. Reveal yourself sometime and join me, we'll eat them two by two, letting our ants make hospice in their sainted carcasses, let us exhaust them before we exhaust ourselves.