It longs to draw a breath from above the surface,
the hunger burns and rages,
a pitch black flame that swallows the light.
In the darkness of its being
its thirst can never be quenched.
It desires to cascade, uncontrolled through the forests
that cling to the slopes of the mountain
in a pilgrimage to summit its precarious peaks.

The flame too joins the march, 
its impatience...ravenous;
to reach beyond the summit and the skies
to consume the very sun itself.
It never will
but it dreams of the idea.
And so, it is forced to wait,
to dwell amongst those zealots of the dark slopes
perpetually gazing at the towers,
the peaks that point like fingers to the heavens...
wishing...
dreaming...
yearning...and enduring.

Yet, such idleness cannot contain it,
it must lash out, rip, tear and howl 
at the passing procession.
A hunger so consuming
that the flame has all but forgotten itself.
It has no memory,
what is current predicts its future
and the future feels like yesterday.