First Movement

Standard

The body is moved by its marvels,
mounted atop a white
and greedy mouth.
From the south, an uprising surprises.
Savage rumbling surging
through the fetid cave.
As if gravity could save you…
This is the release you so solidly crave.
And the mouth becomes a marsh,
the marsh becomes a stew.
You retch. Hands clutching
at your harrowed gut.

-r. miller

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