Chaser.

It burns like a lick does,
Burns at the back of my throat –
Quite the opposite, you say,
Of Tonight, its madness
Calming us somehow some way

Our tongues, from the drought,
Lapped at the cool, sweet waters of
Release, like a drug,
Flowing through our souls and
The floor, ever shaking, stills.

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About hookedonoxygen

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