A Hint of Indulgence

I have all these books, and all this food,

It has nowhere to go,

And no use to be had.

It idles in void between me and somewhere,

And somewhere is never to arrive,

Stuck between the era of low and high.

Neither beginning nor end.

But I'm sure it'll be in my fates.

An empty bank account,

With not a cent to add to my remaining dime,

And with no rhyme to entertain my reason.

A thousand pages could not describe the joy I feel

As it enters my grasp,

And not a single expression can describe

The emptiness I feel

As it all fades.

As though all my joy can be summed up into a pen,

And leave me behind as soon as it's written on my skin.

Never to be reminded, till I taste it in my mouth again,

Or feel it upon my fingers as I turn the page,

And feel elation

Turn into ecstasy.

And in between every second of indulgence,

I'll finally feel satiety,

Like an addict whose forgotten

That the drug is only a travesty

That covers the ugly bruise inside.

And it lasts not but a second too short,

Before it's gone with the wind.

Ash in my fire,

And dust on my shelf.

Books left untouched,

Food unate,

As I sink low and low into my own fodder of unenlightenment.

Debased as I am to know,

That all the money in the world, hasn't bought me joy

And I feel as empty as I did yesterday,

And as empty as I'll feel tomorrow.