The little gift I have of tongue,
And a bit of literacy,
Pantomiming a sweet machine
That never more farfetched were flung.
The honey that is my body,
In the monument skull made full
For one esoteric instant,
Is the blood spilling from the bull.
Words have lost their magic power,
So it seems, when charged by passion.
How to fuse incantations, touch,
And identity? It's too much!
A place for my poems 