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