A crowd gathers
As my tongue dances on the silver platter
Blessed with be-
Headed ignorance
I lick the sweet maple of
Blissful awareness,
From the gilded head of Apasmara
Shiva choreographs a graceful routine that,
Demolishes the basis of my,
Existence
And I am sent reeling,
Into the unfeeling pits of my soul,
For the ambrosia of innocence.
Spilled Ink 