On your lap falls provision for what doesn't titillate.
You burn, doomed forest fire, for more as your sap lays to waste.
The verdant hue of your paper leaves crumple to somber
Black, as you sing for want of more of this enflamed pleasure.
The rich, brown earth and clear water, too base to satiate
Your yearning for the light and fire. To ash you gravitate.
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