The beast is curled in its cage,
Eyes fixed on the entrance.
It waits forever for that perfect moment.
The fire claws but the eyes are cold.
Food is the currency of life.
The beast knows this with certainty
And yet, it does not care.
Choking on its own craving.
Regular meals bring nothing.
Hollow overdrafts sustain existence
And create a debt with no value.
It knows this and hungers still.
At times, the beast twists upon the stage.
It flails, flips, flays itself for tossed morsels.
Heaving flanks slick with sweat and blood
It snaps in the air for fleeting relief.
The beast is not alone.
There are others in cages.
It can only glare with hunger,
Filled with burning poison.
Even with food before it
It sees the others eat.
Maw dripping with spittle.
Oh, to tear into their joy.
None may behold its wretched figure
Trembling with both rage and desire.
Being seen does not bring relief.
It huddles in the shadow.
Hunger cycles with consumption forever,
Even the final meal does not satisfy.
This, too, the beast knows
And yet it eats.