“Life was for absorbing, not recording. And in the end, it was all just paper that someone would have to dispose of after you were gone. Perhaps, after all, one’s purpose in this world was to be forgotten, not remembered.” – Kate Atkinson, Shrines of Gaiety

It rhymed with deprave,
held a sort of helpless hysteria,
as if to resist were impossible,
just a twig in a current,
a leaf in a storm.

She craved sweets.
He craved sex.
Depraved, enslaved.
They caved into their craves, gave in.
The road to hell, paved with crave.

Swimming in a gravy of craving.
One couldn’t simply waive a crave,
shave the crave to a whittled stave,
rave against the overwhelming crave,
like some contemptible knave.

It may be my ruin,
but damn it,
it’s what I crave!

JC Rammelkamp

If you have any thoughts on this poem, JC Rammelkamp would be pleased to hear them.