Vanilla

Golden honey drips with thick viscosity.
Lava-like, the ocean seethes for an entire eon
in the space of a pending moment.
The surface is augmenting.
The flowers are growing cold as their colors.
Their reasons for blossom are shade by shade
taken away. The gold glows forever.
The wet tongue, swollen from the stings it’s sustained,
tastes sweet honey. The rivulets have moved in
to occupy and erode the stone. The force
that is pushing this vast swathe of various
activity, from a deep point within the center everywhere,
is licking clean the rolling wheels.