Incomplete

You make me feel incomplete somehow,
as though even with
all my numerous redeeming characteristics
something is missing,
and, of course,
because that is the way things work,
this something is the most important thing.
And, although I am in many ways
quite a remarkable person,
still if I had that
why it is the stream from which springs forth
all things
the archetypal mother image
and Babylonia's flowers
(almost as significant as God's faithful tree)
and if I had it
well, you would
well, I would be to you
well, if I had it I would know.
And so I search for it.
There have even been times when I have attempted to
manufacture it
(which you must admit is particularly difficult when
I don't have the faintest idea of what it is),
but, alas, all my efforts have gone unrewarded.
You merely look at me, sigh, and turn away muttering,
" No, that's not it."
And, if that were not bad enough,
you tell me that once I actually possessed this elusive
quality.
Teased by the thought
I search again,
submit myself to psychoanalysis
explore the vast realms of my unconscious.

To think that once I had it without realizing the rewards for
its possession.
How I must have squandered it,
wasted its effects on just anyone who happened to
wander into my presence.
And yet, I can't have used it up.
It must still be there.
It can't have vanished.
Surely I've just repressed it somewhere
or maybe
Oh Jesus! Could it be?
Christ! It isn't possible
or is it?
maybe so.
Do you think, perhaps
you could have eaten it?

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