Meditation on the Paradox that Plagues Philosophical Bottom Dwellers
By Alan Lisanti
Some say such is the life of the worm
To dig tunnels of darkness in dirt and soil
Down to the depths in shadows return
Simple and blind and casually coiled
Routine rehearsed, the worm swallows the Earth
Mundane monotonous the circle repeats
I fear the day the ground swallows me first
But they say I can not feel or speak
Eternally into this prison, entwined
And yet I fail to see the irony
And for the feeble of mind, daylight and darkness are mine
Though it won't explain creations tyranny
For to live I must indulge upon the blanket of death
Dirt to breathe, and dirt to be my permanent rest
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