Something to be fed,
a meal of bread and water,
or Filet Mignon and Dom Perignon,
depending upon your social class.
An intense feeling,
the homeless never feed with consistency,
their tin cup replaces their human hope.
An aching need,
to be satisfied with ecstasy,
entwined on a table of love's design,
the rawness of a carnal interlude.
The desire you are fed,
when your lover stirs your passion,
sweat flows like a sensual river.
Something never fed,
acquired through knowledge,
as the green countryside is devoured,
by the greed of corporate raiders.
Hopefully urges to feast,
do not deplete man's bread basket,
or stardust will float aimlessly.
Timothy Michael DiVito c2020
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