Low Life

A maggot's cortex may make dreams,
And would they differ from our own?
We wish to wriggle out of shit,
To be, as fairy stories tell, a prince
Alone inside a castle, waiting for
A lady (you), for whom he'd raise
His portcullis, and she would enter.
They would wed, and all would be
Well, ever after. They would stroll
In silk and gold, and knights would
Come to conquer shit. We would
Not face these wretched walls. We
Would not wonder what we'd eat.
We wouldn't wriggle, like two
Maggots, broke and doomed to
Burrow on. Instead, we'd be
Their dreams.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 16 times
Written on 2013-03-05 at 00:56

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