Forth

Inside the breast
of those that move like a thick slug
dragging their chest,
so when tread the road flesh will tug
and rough rip in lines while they lug
to find what none can;
lower not have I seen a worm,
as dust winds might fan
slipping abroad through a grip firm,
bends to shades of the narrow berm.

Why should they sit
and their eyes up to heaven shun?
Brooks at the pit
a bird, needs flight in the sun
with wide horizons a pair knit!
Slack non your pace
for your thoughts are a tower;
thick the mace
that static time will shower,
uptight aim at every hour!