The bite of mitochondria,
hurt repeated past and present,
this multitude of tiny gluttons
in tight formation on parade,
hardly pleasant,
for days and days
and days,
until you and I in short are mute,
dissuaded from that great stone voice
which called out our twisting fates--
eventually sated our emerald choice
with craving for store bought
polished agates,
and now all but jaded this
our once and late good taste.
No comments:
Post a Comment