A Well Of Discontent

by ianblackpoet

The fickle luxury of sleep denied,
I wallow in a merciless abyss –
The night a symphony of tortured cries,
But I am longing not for slumber’s kiss;
A feast of decadence is ash upon
My tongue, devouring even as I starve –
This hunger too innate to be withdrawn,
But in the essence of my being carved;
And as I will my woes away with wine,
I wearily surrender to my thirst –
To live in want of earthly things is fine,
But I must answer to my spirit first;
I languish in a well of discontent,
Lamenting every breath without you spent.