Fallen Comrade or Standing Hermit

An army of ants march,
Marching to claim their hunt,
Under the blazing heat of the sun,
One falls,
They crawl,
A six legged carcass lays in the path,
Removed by it’s brothers, carried away,
Taken down the nest, an army has it’s back.

A wolf may walk alone,
Hungry and cold, digging into the snow,
He must find his own game, lest he suffer,
And his body be made as meal to another,
With it’s own back to lean on,
If it would stumble, it must catch itself,
If it were lost, it must find it’s own way back,
If it were to fall, it must rise, alone,
Such is the curse of the lone wolf,
Perhaps a blessing in disguise,
For then it can learn to thrive,
To conquer the snow covered lands,
To truly be alive.


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