The Slug
In midnight’ s gardens, I wandered. My legs heavy behind as I pondered. My eyes searched for inches of light In the patches of green darkness. Yet now. I see. I have only found a slug.
The slow shell-less snail swims in leaves. The green grass warps in the slug’ s grieves. Now, in his slime skin I squint to see; His hide a mirror with a pale reflection of me.
I recognise it’ s feel Crawling up my boot. What ails lonesome larva, While I slowly peel It ' s pain dead off my foot.
As I see his projections of my wet hair, Loitering lowly in my flooded home He is salted in my puddled tome. The stories I tell he must share.
Yet I hope he is not a he like I perceive. I know him not to share my tears, my eyes, my broken smile And as I search in midnight’ s garden, all I see Is a slug. And nothing staring back at me. A slug swims in leaves, and that is all.
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