Tumultuous in the grief of ravaging winds.
Worming their way from one to the next;
Worms, digging, ebbing with the flow of all that falters.
And in the breath of man, stumbles a voice.
Distant in the manhandling of endless apology.
Forgotten by those that once listened.
Or, could it be there was not a soul to start with?
A middle-ground between something and nothing.
Church spires, towers of steel and rust.
Apoplectic in all they profess, in all that is dust.
But we sit, and we linger in that set duty.
Duty in something; duty in something we know nothing of.
Twisting, fumbling, fidgeting – lost in life.
Bereavement in all that lingers;
In all that is eternally lost in thought and light.
Cracks in the concrete effigy of the past.
Viewed by those that have no sympathy for the present.
Those that smelt within the furnace of needless fortitude.
For the worms, they wriggle and they writhe;
Compelled towards a destination of sullen plight.
Creatures that cannot stand the breadth of light.
So, one feels pleasure within the company of worms…