Cut of clod and slap of earth,
Faint rhythm on my oaken drum.
With slack lungs that hold no breath,
I pray with might for death to come.

Though my heart’s beat cannot quicken,
To my horror something’s come;
Silent crawling undulation,
Intent in me to make its home.

A slow glimpse beneath my closed lashes
The inquisitor lifts its tentacle-tongue.
Staring face to face with blindness
I understand the horrors to come.

I imagine in him sense and purpose,
And give the worm speech of its own.
“I am here as God’s mistress-
Condemn me not: this work must be done.”

“Your soul is rotten, vile wordsmith,
You should have magnified His throne,
Instead you filled the world with filth,
Now for you, your curse has come.”

“One thousand days of slow torture
My kind and I will work in your tomb.
But when you are once more with nature
Your soul shall at last be free to roam.”