In a foreign land,of mandolins
shepherd's skins and wolve's clothing
hugging close what is known,
i step to a sound unknowable

this is a pulse, a rhythm insistent,
ancient in it's determination
so primitive and palpable it cannot be denied
it pulls me from the middle

inside out, skin and mind wrenched
threads stripped, flesh skinned
soul shod, until essence is exposed

a heaving, humping mass of want and need
chewing its way towards survival
unable to quench its appetite
untl it comsumes itself

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