Sometimes I get a hint of it. I pore it in my coffee sometimes and some will get on my finger. If I lick it off I then can not think of anything I would rather do than down a spoon full. I dream of the north and pancakes and waffles... but then I remember.. it's not what I think it is. It's only the fructose of some cultivated weed pretending to be the sap of the majestic trees towering over northern Americas. The fulfilment of the promised land flowing with milk and honey that Columbus dreamt of in 1492. Honey tainted and honey pure..
It stands on it's own and the villain in the South dressed in sheep's clothing.. dressed in red leaves. Ligning our market shelves screaming "I AM WHAT YOU THINK I AM" and we know it's lies. but it's still sweet.. majestic. A fulfillment of prophecies not spoken to us. But we receive it."
Someday I may find myself happy with pancakes as innocent as baby cubs bathed in your essence. Till then this thick substance will hold me captive both reminding me of your glory and it's fassod.
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