Serpentine slime, its pulse beat time to the
fatuous frolicking of a mind untethered,
a heart too measured, too wise to be willing,
yet skillful cages my bones made of me,
where I now wage war so aggressively.
A porcelain cup begging tea—
A honeycomb promising a bee—
A suitor bending the knee—
ah! oui oui! here's the key!
But be careful lest you disturb . . .
It wrote poetry
of walls falling, allusions calling, fools crawling:
dissemblance, all.
Dangerous words for a heart uncured.
And sorrowfully, now, my familiar beckons me.
The fetid slug it coils through
fantasies derailed and tall-getting-taller tales,
clipped tongues which once caressed lungs unused to air
so fresh, so lush. A flesh aflame became prayer.
What, name the lighter?
Igniter of that welcomed unwelcome desire?
Won't dare. It wouldn't care.
My parting gift? Disgust for a self inane.
My function smothered in shame—
The Loathly Worm, what we became.