The Worm

Did you intend to get stuck in my head? Were you flowing through my ear canal to pier through my eyes? On entering my skull, you must’ve gobbled-up my thoughts and made yourself fat with my hopes and dreams that you, despite any charms, couldn’t get out witchever way you’d come in. That makes you something of a tomber, doesn’t it? A grave-digger preparing the pillow Death will lay my cold head to rest upon (I didn’t think you were quite sharp enough to prick my finger and cursedly heal my insomnia). You cut the marble in my size, under taking quite the task of appeasing my grieving loved ones: sense and peace among them. But, from your cushy throne of gray matter, you seep deep into my sleep, my wakefulness, and that greater place between: worming through my soil so naturally. Or did you get cast there by a roll of dice? Were you on the express when some force derailed you, and you were as lost out there as I was trying to find the wreck in my territory that, being your thoughts in my head but my business, I ought to have founded. So is this love again profound. (poems go here)