Filling holes with things,
stuffing with green and items,
wanting to eat with kings,
needing to be king,
knowing that this desire cannot
be satiated,
nor can the want for
it to be.
Though notes bring slivers,
minuscule portions of contentment,
it is only obvious to seek
to find more,
until the pit is filled
to less full than it was.
It is impossible to give all away
and search for
substance, isn't it?
Or is it?
Maybe it is yet impossible to take
all and give nothing and be
full and large and happy.
Sliding into this familiar space,
I feel the weight of
emptiness,
exactly as it was before,
where it has always been.