Queen

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Our segmented self is dark,
lacquered in chambers with no light.
A creature of facilitation,
the dim day and night
are miscible things.
Legs are independent hairs,
fitful in their restlessness,
they have their own purposes.
Transparent wings maneuver
through a tangled society
of those that are smaller.
Jagged mandibles
bring offerings,
to the same place
they once released you
from your own vellum casing.
Interminable numbers
emerge and attend,
then withdraw at your feet;
incessant in their
removal of dirt
to make room
for your unending
eggs.

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