Foraging

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: Beleaguered Servant

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

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