The Mouth of Earth

The Mouth of Earth

The soil splits, the ground is raw.

A mouth appears, with teeth of stone.

It yawns, it growls, it swallows deep.

It drinks the rain, it drinks the dead.

Roots writhe like snakes, they coil and twist.

They pull you down, they drag you in.

The worms are fat, with stolen hearts.

They chew the dark, they never rest.

The deeper still, the colder grows.

The walls are damp, the air is thick.

The earth is blind, it hears no cry.

It holds its prey, it will not loose.

The stones are sharp, they cut the skin.

The breath is thin, the eyes grow weak.

The earth is vast, it hides its grave.

It feeds on bones, it feeds on dust.

And when the mouth at last is closed.

The ground looks smooth, the grass bends calm.

But underneath, the soil still hums.

It waits, it waits, for more to come.