Tiny soldiers, marching bold,
A crimson army, fierce and bold.
With mandibles strong, they bite and sting,
A tiny menace, a fearsome thing.
They swarm and crawl, a crimson tide,
A hungry horde, that will not subside.
They build their nests, a mound of earth,
A hidden kingdom, of little worth.
They raid the pantry, a hungry band,
A sweet temptation, at hand.
They march in columns, a fearsome sight,
A tiny army, a mighty might.
So let us watch, with wary eye,
The crimson creepers, marching by.
A tiny menace, a fearsome thing,
A crimson army, on the wing.
About the Creator
Moharif Yulianto
a freelance writer and thesis preparation in his country, youtube content creator, facebook
Keep reading
More stories from Moharif Yulianto and writers in Poets and other communities.
Winter Up High
Upon the North, where winter holds its sway, The frigid nights descend with solemn grace, A silent, diamond dust along the way, And moonbeams carve the shadows of the place. The wind, a ghost that whispers through the pines, Doth chill the very breath that leaves the lip, The ground is bound by frosted, silver lines, And stars, like scattered jewels, their vigil keep. The long dark hours demand a sheltered rest, Where firelight dances on the hearth's warm stones, And weary souls are welcomed to the nest, To chase the biting cold from blood and bones. Yet in this chill, a stark, pure beauty lies, Reflected in the vast and endless skies.
By Vinn Blacka day ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.