Hunger Incarnate

It is the second sunny day
and I want to go OUT—
but I have nowhere to go.

My rooms make up a cage
that has held me all winter,
and for the first time in ages,
I’ve been allowed to open the windows.

The wisps of breeze that come through
have woken my numb heart.
Whereas before I was content to remain,
now I am discontent.

Whispers of Yeats whip in with the windows.
The order of words matters more than mere meaning.
And I—
I am hunger incarnate.

The world is so beautiful,
and I pretend to hope to be worthy of it.

I lie on the floor.
The carpet smells of cat food and borscht.
It’s strange that I’ve never noticed that before.

Distended thoughts mix indiscriminately
as I feel jealousy for the voices outside.
I wish I had business there,
a reason to escape this tepid aviary.

And as yet, the desire in my abdomen is so strong
that I fear it will consume me.
Must I live forever in this world,
where everything stirs up in me
the longing for greatness, for excitement?
Must I live with this hunger,
this void that strains to devour everything
and is never satisfied?

How long must I wait?
Come to me, Adventure! Or
Come to me, Death!