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The Flame of the Flood
-The Flame Of The Flood-
Mesmerizing like the shadow of a flame. Kindled a such, the voices beckon.
That sweet, sweet pain. Tasteful like the casing of fine single malt brew.
Swishes of the tongue sounding deep, inside the far back of thou head.
The freezing cold, everlasting smoke that lingers with age.
Divinity, prolonged until the inevitable spitting out of the sampled commodity.
The phantom fog. Is and isn’t. Yet in the ground it lies, run through its course.
Naturally, it came about. Then ceased to be, but somehow remained; priceless.
Copyright ©
Mr Pickles
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