Friday, May 15, 2015

prose poem 10 | a riddle

Like some terrible worm, seeking center, it crawls inside. Every sensing organ becomes an open orifice, waiting to let it in.

The smallest touch can carry the worm; brief words deliver its terrible seed. Smile or laugh or wink to another the worm’s wriggling germ.

Empires fall from it; heroes suffer it as poorly as madmen. Poets wax full with it. Gods wish it wrapped in chains (if their prophets can be believed).

It is the terrible worm of the commonest insanity.

It sends each generation marching towards the next.

The worm is beautiful and raging and melancholic. It is ordinary and strikes often. Stunningly unique and spectacular, the worm destroys logic, defies explanation.

You may wish at times to be rid of it, but without the worm, you would be much less than this.

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