We found him atop
the great wooden desk
after the sun had slipped away and
artificial light lit our lives.

The Great Sir lay upon the timber.
overwhelmed, defeated,
dead.
(and quite smeared)

And the white glass sun shone
overhead, burning
his body crimson,
boiling his dead blood.

Precious heart seeped
into the cracks of the
table,
his head bent backward,
broken, into his thorax.
His golden gaster torn open into
a blanket of skin.
he was a heap (almost unrecognizable,
almost)
of bravery, of daring to scavenge
across the dangerous.

Today, tonight, tomorrow.
May the world mourn with
us, over the lump of courage and petiole. Over
the devastating loss of our great
Sir,
the Ant.