The Wanting Never Ends

— Lyra Fenelle, 07 August 2025

After weeks of waiting,
the parcel arrives—
heavy, larger than expected,
a container of fleeting dreams,
and the silent storehouse of restless craving.

But as the wrapping peels back,
the excitement starts to fade.

What we seek is seldom what appears;
what appears is rarely what we need.

Desire gathers in calm folds:
too many clothes, yet nothing to wear,
a table full, yet hunger lingers.

Not from emptiness,
but from too much
that never touches the heart.

When presence lingers,
the air presses heavy—
desire’s sharp edge cuts deeper,
binding restless chains.

When absence falls,
emptiness floods in—
a void that mocks the wanting,
a silent self that blames and withers.

Through years it lingers—
desire that burns in daylight,
desire that haunts the silence,
a quenchless flame beneath
the ever-wheeling sky.

Presence and absence—
each, in turn, a mirror
for the unsettled soul.

Some say life is adding:
more beauty, more pleasure, more to carry.

Others say it is in shedding:
less is more.

Still the rhythm repeats—
a reaching, a having,
a gentle turning away.

Full of things,
empty of peace;
grasping more,
losing more—

the wanting never ceases—
a shadow folded tight around the heart.

And still,
the wanting never ends.

Not because the world withholds,
but because wanting has grown
so silently familiar.

And perhaps—
one day,
we will wake
and remember
that desire was never the same as living.