TRAGIC Poem: Squirm, by Sydney Matthis

I’m surrounded by desiccation, by hundreds
of dried-up, deceased worms.

My gait is made uneven, compensating for
the avoidance of treading upon the remnants
of these small creatures.

Who dictates this desolation?

Why are these worms drawn up by the false
promises of rain and condemned to dry under
the unforgiving sun, as assuredly as a lover’s
deceit?

The palpable presence of human encroachment
is a boon for such manipulation, sidewalks
providing the platter upon which the tiny
things are baked.

Unevolved and forever fated to flail into
their demise, only an absent-minded hand
descending from above can serve them mercy.