Needless Things: Worm Guts Symphony

The soil resounds with a hollow tone, A choir of rot beneath the stone, Where worm guts sing in dripping chords, A symphony none but the grave affords.

Their organs pulse in a ghastly beat, Flesh turned strings, decay complete, Each note a gasp, each rest a sigh, Composed for worms, where corpses lie.

The violins shriek with tendon’s strain, Cellos moan with marrow’s refrain, Drums of ribs in thunder pound, A graveyard orchestra shakes the ground.

Fingers of bone play keys of mold, Echoing hymns both new and old, Every measure reeks of death, Every stanza steals your breath.

Flies are the flutists, shrill and sharp, Larvae hum on a festering harp, The chorus swells with fetid breath, A requiem carved from life and death.

A baton of bone conducts the swarm, Insects march in cadaverous form, Each measure sways, grotesque, obscene, In time with a melody cold and mean.

The soil itself becomes the stage, A theater built from time and age, The worms perform with sacred grace, While silence crowns their resting place.

So lean an ear where shadows creep, To the crawling hymn beneath your feet, The Worm Guts Symphony plays its part, A dirge composed for the rotting heart. NNN