Her glass fangs slice my tongue into slivers,
Shard's chips blanket my throat in their shimmers,
Seemingly sinking, accustomed to choking,
Swallowing mal-nourishment--my stomach bleeds,
Aching for growing, aching for seeds.

I grasp upon her, the light in my wisdom
Dimming, beginning to shake potently.
I fade and I stumble through tangles and mangles
Of complex and coruscating
Simplicity.

I reach for a *******--a mind-trap of salt--
And end up dehydrating on the
Asphalt, brushing off rocks, but never quite breaking
Free from their locks, so rough and painstaking.
I get up again, the ******* is gone,

Except for crumbs.
And even they start to
Blend with the rocks.