poetomachia

Wherever I go
The Fires follow
Are they taunting me
Or stalking me?
What is their business?

I have become strange to myself
And the wind treats me like an alien
Cooling me only if it must
Baking me when it can spare
Heat from my desert

I look down, and I see the ant.
He seems to pause in recognition.
But he is only rearranging his load
Without thinking
He is automatic

And so it goes
As the continents float by
With plans for the distant future
While I am called to the present
To make amends
And batten down
My trouble