What Is

The soul of man is quicksand, ever taking,
it swallows up all that it conceives;
Never satisfied, it never can be
for more is all that's craved by men in dreams.

A fantasy as soon as is imagined
becomes a tainted fruit now undesired
and in it's place a hollow void is formed
that caffeinates and leaves the weary tired.

And thus I am, for thus I sit right here,
unsatisfied with words and all that is;
immortal in my soul and bored of it,
there must be more to life and more to this.

Copyright Samantha Jayne Frost 2010
All Rights Reserved