Walk forward now, forward,
there's no looking back.
Just follow that corridor of ants,
skittering into the distance.
Watch them strain away, pulling on
harnesses dead taut--
Hear the cries of anguished agony,
not said nor sounded, silent.
Look at each blank stare,
course lacking from tired eyes.
On each back a load too heavy, all
filled to the brim with toys;
trinkets that smell like home.
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