Burns like the hackneyed flame of lore.
Today, for a piece of chocolate,
tomorrow for fame,
yesterday it awoke for undying love.
There's seldom a pattern to its evolution,
fragmented as the matter that binds me.
What's the yin to desire's yang?
Insufficiency of self,
I believe not that I am complete;
without these banal desires clutching at my soul,
like the mourning hands of a widow at the shroud.
As pointless an act,
as is the congested emotion that drives it.
Yet I want.
A word that defines its own duality,
A desire and the lack that begets it.
I do not know what I desire.
But it arises,
In the infamy of a B minor falling through the octave.
Like that of an empty vessel,
that fondly remembers the riches it once held;
and regurgitates them in sound,
empty retches, just uncouth sound,
for even vomit needs matter.
So, what then matters?
I know I want more.
With every want,
I realize, I want for nothing;
but the comfort of a want.
For what do I need to need me?
Strange how this need for everything,
is because I need to be needed.
If I needed myself,
would I then need for anything else?
I know not.
But I know,
that like a vulture circling the high free skies,
eyes peeled for a diseased soul to be deceased;
my sight too is bound,
beyond my freedom,
to the next wanted to die,
so I can taste the fleeting satisfaction of consumption.
What do I need, to need me?