Minor birds

Linear thoughts

Minor birds
We are the meaningless
Ants in a line
Marching there and back

All glory to the queen

Until we are caught in the sun
Through the looking glass
Flushed out with water from the hose
Crushed under the weight
Of all that flesh and bone
Still we have no home

Ghosts following the line
Marching there and back

All glory to the queen

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