Why then has it gone?
The hazy, crazy feeling
The hunt unending for,
The ultimate thrill,
The final sensual assault.
The appetite is gone,
The driving need vanquished,
The sense of loss is not,
For the victor. The conquered,
Must pay tribute.
Which then am I?
Conquistador of enslaving desire,
Or slave of freedom?
And what of misplaced desire,
Without need there is no fulfillment.
Perhaps the search for the answer,
Is the end and not the means.
©1979 Carl Erickson