Wanting More

We chase shiny coins down endless alleys.  

Dopamine whispers louder than we expect.  

A promise hums, sweeter than delivery.  

It’s not the touch, but reaching for it.  

A string tugs at the base of ribs,  

pulling us forward, hands outstretched,  

like moths magnetized to imagined light.  

Desire blooms faster than it fades away.  

The prize, though it gleams, feels faint.  

The wanting, though invisible, glows wild.  

Each step forward, another made of ache.  

Each step forward, the ache feels holy.  

We’ve learned to call this drive ambition.  

A constant hunger mistaken as hunger.  

The end evaporates against our palms.  

It’s the reaching that makes us alive.