VI. Where the Worm Feeds First

The roots of the willow are fingers of greed, That tunnel through silk and the husk of the seed. The dirt is a blanket, so heavy and deep, Where the pulse of the planet is lulling to sleep. I hear the slow ticking of clocks made of clay, As the skin of the memory starts melting away.

A visitor comes with a soft, sliding sound, The king of the darkness, the lord of the ground. With no eyes to see and no voice for a plea, The small, silver hunger is coming for me. It tastes of the salt and it tastes of the fear, Of every lost word that was whispered in here.

The ribcage is hollow, a white, wooden cage, Where the spirit is trapped like a bird in its rage. But the worm is a weaver, a tailor of dust, Who mends all the holes with a needle of rust. It sews through the heart and it sews through the brain, To quiet the thunder and stifle the rain.

“Sleep,” says the soil, with a mouth full of grit, “For the candle is out and the furnace is lit.” You’ll dream of the surface, the wind, and the light, While you turn into earth in the belly of night. For the first of the feast is the best of the rest, In the quiet, cold home of the hollowed-out chest.