Word by word they sucked it
void of treasure, dry of sap.
The lotus seed burst not into bloom that year.
Bit by bit they chiselled
away at its proud likeness.
How hurtful, how convenient
when friends hurl friends to oblivion.
Clenched, jaw-like,
in a world of its own hating,
we shivered with the knowing,
we struggled with the touch.
The gush has settled down into a mere trickle
and mud is silting oddly the channels of delight.
We sigh and add more caustic
as inspiration dies.
findingtimetowrite 