Hands slowly glide,

Blazing a newborn trail,

Where emotions slide,

So fragile and frail,

Where sight dims,

So touch can thrive,

Where doubt swims,

So it can survive.

Alone and afraid,

Teetering on an edge,

Between hushed glade,

And screaming pledge,

Echoes of a pulsing drum

Enhances the hollowed pain,

The juices of a sweet plum,

Anything new to gain.

Cresting this tidal wave,

Everything must stop,

There is too much to crave,

And you disappear with a depraved 'pop'.