the taste

when the synapses fire
fueled by demented desire
there is some rearrangement that is bound to happen
when the colors take on a different meaning
the words don't smell like they should be
the taste, though, that still lingers
a memory wrapped inside a memory
locked tight, burning bright
a vision from a fever dream
too much would kill you fucker, a voice whispers
who's afraid of death then, the answer
to the question that was never asked
but all the cards on the table
everything on the line
and the mouth floods up
on the memory of a taste
a shiver down the spine
a sigh
a gulp
a thirst
never quenched...


///////
i could bite the face of god today.