In Progess

It was stone

the first tongue

that spit lava

from the magma-filled


Before it let go

it rolled

it around

the taste buds

and up on hard and soft


to get a feel for it


it said

‘to hell with you.’

(Thinking hell

was nth times hotter

than this

But who knows)

It was (un)fortunate-

the destination

was never met,

the failure

which far preceded


came in the form

of islands

But for not getting there

here was consolation

-the sun

-the waves

-the steps

of some foreign


upon its



-the room to think about its own teeth

growing in(somniac)

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