The Hungry

Strike a match just to smell it burn.
Pick a Lily just to touch the silk.
The recorders playing, but just watch it turn,
as your mind feels groggy as sour milk.
Strawberry juice stains my lips,
slides like a serpent down the palm,
artly smears my fingure tips,
at last, your breathing's calm.
Why are you standing over there?
Venture to me if you dare.
In flimsy dark I'm waiting here,
and the Hungry like to share.





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