The cartography of gratification

Charts only a levelled landscape

Whereby dreams get blown around

Like tumbleweed mostly

Although at certain times of the year

High summer usually

Those dreams take on

A semblance of reality

Have substance

Become edible even


Hence in this place

In that serene spell

The finest restaurant

Michelin stars galore

Opens its doors


It boasts no menu

Punters seeking

Such delectation

Must pick from the

The vat of dreams


So choose carefully

Select the wrong ones

Upon which to feast

Then you may find

You have consumed

The Succubus

Tastes sublime

Yet I’ve heard tell

The most noxious of all things

Swallowed whole

One will never be the same again


14 thoughts on “THE SUCCUBUS

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