He went down again,
after having failed his first attempt
at harvesting -- with his mouth --
the cornucopia of crops,
flooding up, between her legs.
But there was no produce -- nothing grown --
or in this way construed or made.
Neither was there was something in this moment flooding,
meaning.... nor was there actually a fantasized pair of legs,
or inclusive thighs enclosing him
as a Venus would trap its prey.
...Only a metaphor or figure of speech,
for everything creeping about within his head.
Only in his mind did things -- just like this --
unwind, as images played, turning into movies,
legends, & tales; making into monuments ...concepts..
which were once
too difficult to accept, by presenting them in softer ways,
ensuring -- no matter Its form -- he would face ....that Dark Abyss,
no matter its location on the spectrum. No matter its shape,
whether a vast, cold black hole in space,
or as a narrow alley, still-vast, yet ..small, & warm,
..warm-ing his nose, cheeks, & lips... even the fragile skin
around his eyes: totally, encompassing his face.
No matter... even as.... that total mess,
staring him down, ferociously
inking between her legs ...grinning,
terribly, rim dripping, taunting him
amidst his second attempt.
Probably come back to this one in a few days.
First draft.
