Inching forward, miserable worm:
Incapable
Insipid
Irrelevant.
Wishing for warm cocoon’d escape
Inch.
Inch.
Inch.
Inch.
Nibbling leaves, barely surviving
A worm’s life—
life: does a worm deserve such lofty appellations—
Inch.
Inch.
Inch.
Inch.
Finding space, cocoon spun,
Safe!
Warm!
Metamorphing!
Time has wrought a marvelous change
From worm to beautiful butter—
Fall.
Deranged.
Mutant.
Something’s gone wrong.
Worms, my friend, are not irrelevant. They are a crucial part of every ecosystem, living (and consumed) in soil and sea. Some worms are also vital in the production of fertile, arable lands. In short, we owe a lot to the worm.
Anyhow, I like your writing. A good concrete poem seems to be a rare find these days.
take it all with tranquility,
patrick
Patrick! Good friend, it’s good to see you here.
While the worm may serve its purpose in nature, when one, as a human, feels no greater than a worm, one feels irrelevant.
I’m glad you like it!
Cheers, mate.
I love this poem. It reads so well. The words flow together creating wonderful images. Even from the way it’s set up when you read it it seems to move, to flow. The ending was marvelous, just marvelous.
Sarah: You’re too kind. Thanks :)
I’m glad to be here. I can relate with the bit about feeling irrelevant at times – just another cog in the machine and all that sort of self loathing nonsense. Anyhow, I hope you don’t feel this sort of depression too much, and if you do, keep writing. It’s very creative. When I’m depressed, I find my spirits lifted after expressing some downer material. Doing so seems to be a good way to part with one’s woes. Either way, I’m glad things are looking up for you. paz. patrick.