Writhing,
a multitude of worms
stuffed in boxes
stacked on top of one another,
climbing higher and higher
into the sky
with each passing
year.
Leaves falling,
tumbling
from mother branches
to barren ground.
Dead, free of life’s
sweet nectar,
crunching and crackling
under children’s
bare feet.
Stay awake, young child.
Do not sleep
for fear of the thoughts
under your bed.
Stay awake, young child.
Do not weep
for fear of the monsters
inside your head.
Another day will come.
Another cigarette burned to fingertips.
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