There is no satisfaction in these things
Which I have been so taught to lust and purse.
They leave my heart wanting, panting for something
Lasting beyond the grasp of a moment.
An eternal supplication of and for my own being.
See my selfishness perverse the moment
Leaving little but man, this ill-fated glutton
Thirsting for hope founded not in dust,
Lost not to time nor changed with the turn of an emotion.
The thought of contentness is foreign and poison to me.
Tempt me not with this prize, so lofty and vaporous
That it might not falter when I reach to seize it.
A vapor of a promise forgotten with the tempting of another
Where do you dwell, gift without end?
From whence do you birth?
Do you seek as I seek you? To know that would be…
Contentedness.