You feel it first
On the tip of your tongue
Before you taste it
Yielding then unyielding,
And as moist as a ripe
mushroom
Making you ache to sink
All your teeth into it
But you plunge your tongue
Deep into it instead,
Circling the place
That makes you ache the most,
Lost in the depths of the
forest
With no yearning to escape,
Waiting for the wolves to
devour you
When you are the wolf
With the world on the tip of
your tongue,
Doing all you can to ease the
ache
To prepare this holy ground
For more of you to enter,
Your unyielding core plunging
Deep into that abyss
Rubbing more than just sticks
together
With the hope of making a
fire
That will consume you
Even as you burst,
So that you can no longer feel
or taste
Or think, but merely keep on.
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