Stone of decay in my jaw,
Where sweet upon sweet sticks.
Clamped and stewed to mush to glue,
Gleaming the spirit in laugh on drool.
Enough, the needle ache,
The jaw's longing cud is empty sap.
A life addiction needs dismiss.
Let salt of cheek bud to bloom,
And wash grey grit of sugar through.
Toil and age made strings of the harp,
Fingers to draw music of life.
Yet, the harvest of crystal is rich-to-poor,
Stolen away by brush of hand,
Vanished to air by restless thought.
The prized crystal sits too frail of form,
Too fleeting to mound in currency.
No, nothing remains but enthroned sweet,
To overlord bows and bounty for ever.
At dark, whimsied hope sighs,
in cold breath.
If only hazy moons cycle fixed,
Rivers of salt would flow throughout.
Footy fatigian.
Sorry for being a bit morbid - just getting it out of my system...
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