A Sort of Hunger

There is a pain somewhere inside of me,
Sharp, sudden, cutting like striking glances,
Trivial in the madness of the day,
But gnaws on my bones when I’m most weary.

In youth we must mistake the remedy:
Form soothing balms with rushed dalliances,
Or the comfort of endless holiday,
Yet pain returns – patient, predatory.

While age refines our life’s stability,
That aching pain mutates and advances,
No longer something simply kept at bay,
But welcomed – devoted purgatory.

It’s a sort of hunger in our body,
A void that allures, consumes, entrances,
Swallows tomorrow, today, yesterday,
A reminder, my Memento Mori.

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