Who for this hunger hungers for more underneath a russet sky? Stood with your thinning back turned away from mottled loss and ache with nothing to seize in your weakened hands. Gripped of emptiness, your breath and breathing to your mouth gone bitter, poison for your struggle and empty bowls placed upon prayer's wishful cart. O hunger in your scrawny temple sits with a craving carved in sorrow, who will lift your nodding head, and food bid to your beautiful lips? © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)