Thick in the mucky heat the battle rages loud.
Lashing through the underbrush the the battle forms a crowd.
One by one the bodies drop defending their own kind.
Two by two lies another limp, bloody and maligned.
This is not a war over money but a turf war for survival of most fit.
They are the strongest soldiers known to man and rush into the pit.
They are dressed in armor shiny, slick and strong.
They do not dare retreat as the battle rages right nor wrong.
Some carry their children, tiny eggs each on a powerful back.
Other soldiers hoist the dead to lay in burial piles that they will stack.
They do it all for their Queen and all for their beloved young.
They die in hundreds as the war rages mercilessly in this mighty rung.
Mandible weaponry clicks and bites are exchanged as exoskeltons are spliced.
Fallen armored soldiers wriggle then cease to breath as limbs are cut and diced.
Stingers lash at the other to pump its poison to its evil foe.
The soldiers weary battle forward until they can no longer go.
Who wins? Who loses in a war? Death I guess and later life is Fate, I suppose.
I scoot back from the blades of grass and shift into a deep quiet somber repose.