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
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