It.

It’s been a while.
It’s been a skip, hop, thud.
Made to squirm among the mud.

Greetings to an old friend;
I can’t welcome you
any other way.
Perched on your rain-lulled deck,
Made to talk but not to stay.

Greetings to a worm-ghost,
Sulking in the pessimistic
youthful curse.
Strapped to a worm-bed,
Made from pessimistic
polished verse.

Says to this ghost friend, I,
“You’ve been awake too long.
Sulking in the rain-home;
Find a place you don’t belong.”
Says I to this old worm,
“Too long now I’ll still begrudge,”
Lies I through my words then,
Lies I to my words, then,
“Where you cast me in the sludge.”