The destruction is foreign.
The wailing.
                                                                                                   The growling.
                                                                   The hunger claws at my insides,
Seedlings sprout from the soil
as the world swells with my breath,
                                                                    and my organs begin to deflate.
yet none of my cries
will save the oak.
                                                                                          The last of my fruit
                                                                               tumbled down my throat
                                                                                          before burning up.
Alkaline rivers.
salty rivulets.
Dead water.
                                                                                      This ocean is endless.
                                                            The tides change between my teeth,
It pours from my eyes,
                                                                         and it spills from my mouth.
colourless agony.
Blood on the black earth
                                                                                    The taste of red metal,
                                                                                                 a second flood.
where the void was created,
                                                                               The void cannot be filled.
                                                                                                         Insatiable.
imperceptible.
The grove brutally butchered
                                                                               My hand bitten clean off,
by a greedy axe
and a grand appetite.
My words still create;
                                                                                                         my mouth
                                                                                                          the blade.
life still leaves my lips.
What my tongue provides,
it can withhold,
                                                                                             I give it my flesh,
and so you will
                                                                                     tear tissue from bone.
hunger.
                                                                                                Oh, the hunger.