Want

Time has a way
Of waning
Trustees
And weeks and weeks
Until the ease of stagnation
Becomes a home—not a visit

Time has a way
Of erasing
Any perception
Objectively

Without a trace
What is it I claim?

Words and sounds and colors
Brutally claw their way out of my mind
My hands, my mouth, my resources
Are as ugly as they are hysterically divine

The personal—now, immediate
The grisly taste of hedonistic tongues
There is no other way to do it

I want
Therefore
I devour