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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
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