Photo by Leo Cardelli from Pexels.com
I’m dark
like the shoeshine,
on the pedestal
at her feet.
My tiny legs
can’t dance
after stained carpets
and rugged hills anymore.
Because they echo in a haunting of her—
The Queen.
A worker ant
whose home
doesn’t have doors.
The Queen:
whose life I’d give mine for.
The Queen.
I wanted to grow wings and fly once
Like her
But I think I’ll grow feathers instead.