Image found at

Image found at


It is an itch that can’t be scratched, an urge that always lingers.

Like a phantom limb it throbs and tingles, lurking at the edge of awareness.

The sensation cries out for relief, for indulgence to be had.

Neither good nor bad, the flesh-bound feeling knows no moral.

At willpower’s end the drive is met, reason consumed by passion.

But it is a thirst that can’t be quenched, emptiness ever the final result.

by Nicholas Byrley


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