The World Is Like A Worm Poem by Mark Heathcote

The world struggles in its sinews
A frenetic wriggling worm in space
Coiled in its worm castings,
It also knows no better place.

The moon at its head looks—on
As if, it was meant for looking,
But the worm is blind:
And doesn't it fear to look at the sun.

Thrashing around in the darkness
It's a real night crawler…
Lacking respiratory organs, plus…
It breathes through its skin.

The skin exudes a lubricating fluid
This cascades through the undergrowth
The world is like a worm on a hook clouted
The clay upon its back is as us loath to change.