toward western hills
the last vestiges of light
sink as day draws down
I am in a constant cycle of make and remake.
Passion ebbs and flows from my core
Subjected to the company surrounding me.
Encircling, intertwining, tainting like a drop of black in an entire pale of white paint.
I have yet to find one person
That draws something from within my very being,
That entirely satisfies and satiates this gnawing in my stomach,
This unrelenting hunger.
What am I starving for?
What is it that I can not help but crave?
If only I knew, if only I knew.
— The End —