Everyone has something inside them, a small emptiness or a large one, a space that begs to be filled. For some, it's some special object they think will make their life complete. For others, it's a special person, or just something they think only another human being can give to them. And in the dark parts of the night, the craving for the missing thing can become overwhelming...
or what I crave, there is no easy cure No food to sate this emptiness inside And yet -- how can I live when in my gut This need cries out for satiation?
Can I put a name to it So that I can capture its dark essence Pin it like a butterfly to a board Dissect it, claim it See it in its glory and its foetid gleam Oil-slick greasy and stinking of gin And lesser scents of decay Stare into its dead blind eyes Their compound facets reflecting just my own Hazel orbs Distorted past knowing if I cry Or if I merely have stayed awake too long
Or yet, to find the hidden merchant Who sells an herb Or rare vegetable That in only one thin shaving can fill my heart Who knows not only the hunger and its name But the way to banish it forever To the land of sorrow from whence it came Who will brew me some potent tea Reeking of tart citrus and exotic woods Charge me something I can stand Like a few hairs from my head Or an old lover's scent Something I can live without
But like the woman who lived by the witch's garden Who craved the tender parsley that grew only Over the forbidding fence Who smelled it Dreamed of it Let it haunt her waking and her stupor As she lingered in the heat of the noontime sun Her belly swelling with new life Will I too demand that someone climb And steal And fetch for me the herbs And will the witch come to me Only after I've consumed the stuff Hoping to fill the yawning hole And demand a price too dear Too high for what I won But which I cannot deny If the fault was mine So must I bear the cost
But is this thing a separate entity A gnawing animal inside of me Seeking escape or just nourishment Uncaring that to sate itself will kill the host Will dig me hollow from within Leave me empty and ravaged With not a mark on my body To show the damage is done
It is not a killing thing This hunger This craving It shall not be my death It shall not even cease my daily passage Through sleeping and waking Through work or rest Through seeking sustenance of another kind It shall not lay me low upon my bed To sweat and slowly shrink into my sheets It will not have such mercy upon me If mercy is what I'd call that end It shall not speak its name Nor whisper of its needs But shall instead accompany me in silence Attack me in my most unguarded times Refuse to leave my side like a most unwelcome guest And eat me instead As I seek to fill it up Taking delicate nibbles of my comfort And my pride The gourmand feasting with restraint Although I know It will consume me entirely But only Oh so slow
Young Maggie Stuart begins to have strange dreams, then develops what seem to be superhuman perception. Suddenly, she is thrown into the middle of an age-old battle between ancient foes. Will she stay a pawn, or can she become a force to be reckoned with herself? And just how does her teacher Mr. Hunt fit into the picture: as an ally, or her worst enemy of all?
or what I crave, there is no easy cure
But like the woman who lived by the witch's garden
