khazad-dûm

My heart’s an ant-farm
With no Queen,
And no ants it would seem;
Tiny bridges, yes,
Snuffed lamps and bumpy ramps,
Spiral staircases unsprung—
A door-hung chair or two—
Make a brace or mine a place,
E’en into the still-smoldering chases.
But nonetheless vacant.
To a dust-mite, and blue.
Though truly labyrinthine,
Not a racy thought or traipsy-lou
To be found hawking stew
Anywhere.
Not that I chagrined-care
It’s Queen-empty,
Mostly-so preemptively:
Three sunny-side weeds, they count on me.
But how sudden-stirred and dumb-bustling
Will this sub-terra so absurdly be…
When She happens by me
Too-antless,
With room availability?