The heart is hungry, always foraging
For bits of love we might find here, or there;
The world is rocked, I’m standing on the edge,
Between my search and general mal de mer

I’m mesmerized by opal, black, and teal,
And somewhere past control of how I feel –
The calendar says warmth will soon return,
But in my depth, I feel the summer’s burn

There’s sapient delight, somewhere, I guess.
But that is not the kind I ever find;
Instead, I’ve jettisoned my better mind
For tastes that leave me bits less ravenous

Environments of rooms and corridors
Predation that awaits dumb foragers

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s