Gnawing Worms

Bags under the eyes And all around, bleeding black Scorned and scratched to receive the light A light slipping from sore grasps Fingertips burning, pressing hard Noise furrowing and echoing the pupils Gnashing, swallowing, laboring Pushing the dead, fetid fetus out Slamming on the notes now The black bags ever sink Mind refuses to positively think And rather catastrophically wired To the ever-slipping fires Betrothed to your liking Tentacles and tantalizing suns Spurring the vision, bleeding incisions Opening to the bloody scene of darkness Hearing it croaking The dead fetus soaking Liquidated larvae squealing with glee Little black dot of its head or bottom Squirming inside to taste the bitter slime It is out but still warm The tears are dried by the breezes of disappointment The little worms in folding enjoyment Losing a little one Gains so much Real-eases so little And internally, eternally Gnaws