On The State Of Being Exigently Unsatisfied
The sight of your eyes seeks the maligned contenders.
by R.J. Bevans
The breath in your lungs seeks the young, candied air.
The sure in your heart seeks the purely fictional.
The drone in you soul seeks the known conditional.
The brine of your blood seeks the bud not the petal;
For a petal is grown whilst the bud is unsettled.
The taste in your tongue seeks out the drunkard’s glass.
The scratch of your nails yearns for the failure of love.
The smug in your smile seeks the beguiled artisan.
The lust in your loin seeks a cock-in-mouth partisan.
The rot in your gut seeks a wave not the ocean;
For the wave is change whilst the sea is devotion.