Voracity

Herb in my head, a fruit in my refrigerator;
Voracity gnawed at my teeth.
I gallop towards a field of yellow;
Knife in hand, primed to be stained red.
Cheval de frise engulfed the sugary land,
Spikes of maroon wood with the stench of dry blood.
With remarkable dexterity I cut the fruit open.
My blade lay waste to the barren structure.
The crunch of the scrumptious interior,
The fluidity of the extract,
Quenched my ravenous appetite.
The herb was still in my head;
My refrigerator, however, was thieved of a pineapple.