in response

What do you say when the tongue
Has ran dry like the unmade bed
Of a river long lost?
No moisture resides in
Those residuals of sediment.
These dusty pathways keep
No sentiments
Or words of surprise left hidden,
There resides no fossils
Within it’s starved
Cracked soil.

Each single drop of fantastic idolism,
Has been rung tight from its earthy birthplace
Like an Indian burn to the skin.
Every emotion this archeologist has thus encountered,
(Similar to the decaying
Fleshy buds of sense)
Has been parched,
Denied the taste
of savored adoration
That it oh so
desires to thirst for.