Sitting on the train to work,
I see the fields flying by.
The sprawling mass of moving green
Would calm me on some other days.
Yet now the view alarms me;
The expanse no longer my friend.

As a child I would lie on the lawn,
Watching the ants scurry about.
An infant's game on sunny days
A thing to do to pass the time.
But now this care-free passtime
Is the cause of all my pain.

An ant holds a piece of grass,
The grass as big or more than it.
A perfect ant, the perfect piece.
I like the perfection,
It keeps me happy,
The simplicity nulling my brain.

I hum to myself as a watch it move,
The noise echoing in my hand-cupped head.
The summer sun's warmth,
The reverberating noise,
The simple perfection.
These things do haunt me now.

The mass of fields fly by before me,
The ants still scurrying about the grass.
In all those fields I could lie,
The warmth, the noise, the shinning bug.
And I would think again,
The perfection of the smallest thing.

But do those ants ever stop the scurry,
And think about the size of me,
The ant would see a massive thing,
And yet would simply not comprehend,
The frightening thought of self
As I move along the track.