I thirst.

(They gave me gall for my meat; and in
my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.)

Wither me, and I shall crumble;
weather me, and I shall become as dust.
In complaint I crease my brows,
letting droop the corners of my mouth;
in my longing I cannot rest, but
pace, fidget my fingers against my face
that is dark with desire.
This is not a need for something I could 
dig for - this is not a need at all,
only... I would like to taste that
bitterness again, and must not.
There are only ever two choices, only
two ways for decision.
And I will taste that bitterness again.

Remember - this sponge, waved unsteadily 
before my face, is not only a receptacle for
pain.  It has felt its own agonies;
was living, is dried and long dead,
red with the wine it's soaked in.  I can
avert my eyes, but only for so long;
I'll lean forward, and afterwards
I'll claim that I was pushed.
I said I thirst.  Deny me.

( to the contents page.)