Sour Leaf

Curiosity lead me to you,
and hysteria lead me away.

Convulsions. Panic. Madness. The Rabid Fear of Death.
Curses came as blessings,
A dying Phoenix rises to new life, new breath.
Curses become blood-red dressings.

Pungent smell, sweet as Hell.
Bubbling waters and burnt glass,
fuel the fires of philosophical battles, feed the questions whom dwell.
Smouldering minds, brazen liquid, shiftless ash.
Red-eyed and digesting disgust is the snake in the grass.

Cellulose comatose, sweet stupor.
Ravishing remedy, asinine answers, pathetic heights.
Cures cancers and alleviate all ails, a wonderful elixir.
The snake in the grass slithers from darker lands,
delighted to send his oil, the masses embrace the fangs, the bite.
Young fools replace the old, Death is their shrill demand.

Where there is smoke there is fire,
the heat draws closer.
The winds do not change on my desire,
Fires crackle. Will it scorch, or just make us wait on an unplugged toaster?