Saturday, December 15, 2012

Thrice Instant

Thrice Instant
Ron Koppelberger

The desired the pacifying taste of freedom, defined by the need she pampered.
“Implore, enjoin by
Passions apple and the
Still water of my mix,
Give me thrice in an instant
The savor of what
We have and the first kiss of lovers
In high skies.”
She chanted to herself. The brew she stirred said delicious, simply delicious. She sipped the mixture and thrice instant cringed at the taste. “What are you?” she screamed, “What in heaven are you?” she screamed again. The mix bubbled and cooked and devoured the pot, the stove, the kitchen and finally the small cottage.
At last she sighed and the brew rumbled in her gut. “If for a taste thrice instant I’d be devoured as well!” she realized.

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