The happy worms are where the moist dirt lies.*

The happy worms are where the moist dirt lies, the moist dirt lies where the worms are happy.

The happy worms are where the moist dirt lies, the moist dirt lies where the worms are happy, and the sleepy leaves lie on top.

I am dinning with collectors.
The table is marble white.
In the past scholars wiled away their time here.
Yet I have no money
only my clothes and  soul.
Why am I pushed through the door  marked religion ?
Are they ungalant seekers too!
There is a 30 year war in progress
Do the priests want by brass belt
to make a musket?
Must I fight the good fight?

Tuesday was a good day
I awoke early naturally to
The sweet sound of birds
Singing their morning tune
And their joy made my joy

Then I heard the terrible news
In Brussels people were dying
And my heart went out to them
Feeling disgusting shame that we
As humans do that to each other

The cusp of the moment
Felt like a precipice;
Like pressure rising before
That first flash of lightning
That bleeds into the next.
The air was charged
Before those words were said;
The crackle as tangible as static
Raising hairs along my arms.

They felt like hands
Spreading across the furled wing-bones of
My shoulders
It was that gasp before the shove,
The realization dawning,
The knowledge of the fissure below
Where the sun found no purchase.

The words left her lips
And I fell
Unhindered to a place
Where you're not breathing.