The Great White Worm
by M.J. Hewitt

 
A large puffy worm, as pure white as freshly fallen snow, lives deep down beneath the many graves of Gomara, where it feasts upon the rotting corpses of the dead, deep down, cloaked by darkness, the ancient worm will never grow hungry, slipping, and sliding, gliding powerfully, it searches for the delicacy of the lost desperate soul that is howling somewhere far below, in amongst the shadowy catacombs of the graveyard Gomara, now dead, but still suffering deeply, the soul of a small lonely child, weeps, and howls for the return of life, or for the soft, warm love, of a parent, but unfortunately, neither of these will be found, for the bloated, blubbery, great white worm has this soul's scent engraved deeply within its brilliant mind. The taste of a fresh soul to the white soul-hunting worm you see is unsurpassable. Hours later, now beneath the old broken down church, lying in the bowels of Gomara, the great white worm is full, and contented, coiled at the feet of its dark master, the worm dreams, and the dark one feeds off these dreams, which are laced with fear, pain, and loneliness, fine sustenance, for the dark god of Gomara, fine indeed.

Back to the Poetry List