It could crawl in your ear while you’re sleeping,
the worm with its hunger for dreams.
It would pull out the threads of your brain,
and you’d play at its game as it opened your seams.
In despair you have felt no one wanted your thoughts,
but the worm could survive on their gleams.
And its curious call in the depths of the night
that you’ve listened to silently, patiently, mumbles in streams.
When the line has gone dead,
you have wandered and walked with the moon in its beams.
But the call, was it sent to your house or your head?
Did it ask, “Has the worm ever said what it means?”
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