the source of denial
through throat
where tang stirs,
head waters
past milked wash, arch
roots, bitter
tannin, the dead leaves
wicked off your crown, down
your back, tugging
your chest like a heart at
tack. you make
once more of the source,
you think, of it
all. if it still exists.
if it ever did. hard, dry,
high, where be
hooves passage
with out ways to survive
wasting for a taste.
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