Kneaded

Fingers in mouths and unknown parts
Sliding through jaws, portals, places upon various surfaces of one another
In the black room, we feel the four walls
We see nothing and we vaguely recall having any recollection at all
So we search every inch of the other
Sorta similar, but certainly not the same
So feverishly we seek
Go in, go out, go in between
Atop, underneath, pressed tightly
Slipping, sliding, fitting like we are being kneaded by
The darkness in which we exist
We know we are missing something
And we know they are upon us when the walls move
And the bright lights only let our eyes see what truth we exist in
Black and black, never a surprise
Only an audience of some unknown size
Watching, smelling, listening to nothing
Anything, move about or stay frozen
No matter the omittance of any reason
But then the painter, he places objects
Of impossible properties behind the eyelids
With crafted and ordered words
The noises our teeth and tongues create
They place spectacular ideas in the sockets behind our eyes
But it's not enough to satiate the need
The animal cannot be destroyed so easily
It's not enough
But back in the dark
We remember
Exactly what to do