WORMS – F.R. Martinez

Words scattered on the floor, alive
scrawled and crawling
scrambling for sense, angling for my attention
wriggling and writhing
words that slither through me
in and out of me
like when I’m dead and in the ground
which is why I’d rather burn
and be ash
scattered in the wind.

All these words point nowhere
My life insubstantial, insufficient, illusive as air
Noise, this voice
what choice
but to look to the puzzle
the wriggling symbols
that congeal and form at my feet
creating forms
these worms
these words
these sounds I make
dangling them on a hook
for some mythical beast
that refuses to be caught.


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