The taste was like oranges and pineapples,
Mixed into a brew of bubbling witch’s broth,
Slavered with relishes of ancient lands and languages
It was the fruit of desire and legume of touch.

Each flavor built upon itself while changing form,
No problems of breathing intruded the experience,
And the golden apples of the sun,
The silver apples of the moon,
Had no glow about them like the morsel I tasted.

Granule in texture and size,
Miniscule and minute was the morsel.
Like dark matter it weighted my stomach
Filled my gullet,
Transferred taste into laziness for blandness
And woke violence in my cravings.
No more a zombie of desire,
But a ravenous plague upon delight.

Lasting temptation glittered on my tongue,
Sparkled dust from salivating a crumb to dissolved
Completion.
Lacking was the want for more,
As the case typically is with mundane banquets.
The very nature of this one morsel meal
Was exquisite in presentation and development.
Fingers to lips, resting on tongue, swallow of taste soaked saliva
And an unseen passage to stomach.
Halos should flock to my scalp,
And angles lift my arms,
Heaven is inside of me,
Passing through my veins.

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