Shreds: “The Pigeon and the Anthill”

The anthill stirs with the morning light,
Though early it seemed from my lofty edge.
The scholar doth peer with a gaze so slight
At a bulb in cold formalin’s embrace,
Then descends the stairs, a measured pace,
With sheaves of paper in hand.
From here I espy the crowded race
O’ the anthill’s roads, mindless jam.
Through a window, thick and grand,
Two men lie still on the parquet floor,
A crimson stain on the couch doth stand,
And two cups of coffee, steaming, no more.
The anthill blackens, with soot and mire,
And I gaze on, a touch forlorn, and muse
If ‘tis just to judge myself with ire,
Thinking myself the higher, I’m confused,
Yet, still, I am but a pigeon.