Sweet Tooth

Yesterday, not only did prose taste strange but an unfamiliar maundering settled it's silence upon my tongue with an unsavory absoluteness only the mouth could define, yet mine voices nothing now today I feel like my heart bears some sort of physical deficiency as if all the blood and ink consumed itself leaving me dryly inadequate to write a poem and these fingers have been fidgeting with a sick kind of worry, starving for a fork that not only cradles clarity but also quells it's holder, whilst nourishing the belly with palatable substance