Honey, down in the depths of the pot
It stops if you reach its core
The glistening dulls to a mucusy blot
That clogs to rot in the back of your throat
It turns to dregs but the barrel is bare –
You licked it clean of its salt.
The hand that grabs is met with a snare
But the fingers that linger are forever without
They open and close like the mouth of a fish
Gaping at bubbles of air
You swallow at rocks ’til your body is sick
But you know that the hunger’s still there.
From the sides to all your stories
I’ve made myself a shape
It grows with every added edge
With holes that start to gape.
I stuff the gaps with fairy dust
And line them all with glue
But the sides they keep on coming –
For every one there’s two.
I bought a pair of scales
To help me with the load;
Decide the sides that have to stay
And which must surely go.
I bought myself a racket
I’ll stand in half a court
To bat the stories back again
And take the score to naught.
I’d take the score to love
But it’s gone beyond the point
Now the game is truly over
My shape becomes a coin
A coin has just two sides
But there’s a side to every story
So when I leave it up to fate
He’ll bask in all the glory.