Mine is not the rod that Moses bore, more the twisted stick,
a slithering serpent seeking the burning bush, the unconsumed fire that draws
me towards you, but in the dark of night, a candle stick with wax that drips,
never expired, tapered to the tip, slipping between your fingers as you hold
it, a light in the night I ache fore, that keeps my eyes open even when
weariness wears me away. I am the rod, the snake, the candle stick. I am the wax
the drips down into you, filling you up. I am the drips that paint your lips,
the ooze you lick, the never ending fire inside.
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