An Epilogue Poem by Timmy Angel Naylor
An Epilogue
There was a mystic, antique maggot
In the ochre eye
Of a man who played reeds on the burial mound.
And an eel in the ditch
Where the farmer's girl swam with frogspawn in her hair.
In pride I would not be entwined with either,
But in my grave discern That I was ever carnage
Of a sly, relentless worm.
Tuesday, March 11, 2025
Topic(s) of this poem: hair,pride
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8/6/2026 8:37:22 PM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
