Poem: He Spoke of A Missing Hunger

He Spoke of A Missing Hunger

The hunger is not missing,
not now.  I do not think it ever was:
maybe it was unnoticed
or unheeded or abandoned
and ignored, maybe, but missing? 
No.  It waited, if anything.
But now, it is not waiting,
will not wait, refuses waiting,
is a snarling hunger,
is the call of wolves 
who smell a feast
in the coldest wind of Winter,
is deep, cannot imagine patience.
The hunger, he spoke of it,
said it was missing,
was needed.  Now:
there is a hunger,
but a hunger
that needs feeding
though there is nothing,
there is nothing for it,
is only the hunger itself,
nothing here even
to begin its satiation.

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