Worms and Dirt

Worms and dirt
that is all that is need for company really
as in the end
they are our terminal fate,
embracing decaying bodies
bereft of sparks of motion
beyond the barrier above
where there is life and loss
enough to make death seem preferable,
especially when there are plenty of bastards
to disappoint and grind you down
until only food for worms
and ash for earth remains,
Final friends who do not judge
and are only quiet company
as the flesh and time slide away
into oblivion past care
completely content
given any appearance or shape
if just to absorb and decompose
in grateful artful composition
of life and living by death and dying
enough to make the bones rattle
in carefree satisfaction
as their weight is lifted, consumed, pulled,
off chests once held and refrained
where air used to rush in and out of
to make words the worms cannot hear,
for we are wriggling worms
in foul earth.
At least it feels like that some days.