Habit

Twenty a day or a bottle of vodka,

Promises to quit are broken by the desire

Of routine, no impulse but loveless sex,

A search inwards fruitless, only emotion habitual lust.

Back again, a routine bland and empty,

Ignored and ignoring in the morning

And the evening, before we dig again in desire,

Searching again for more emotion than this.

Habit is concrete, something to walk back on

Afterwards, words fail nothing to discuss,

Only the smell and the stains remain,

A look later recalls the need, round two or twenty.

Again, a book read before, a search for treasure,

Begun only by want, the depth has not been found,

Pleasure only physical, a pity, no new rhythm

Results in a hole being filled by nothing, useless.

Separate, the habit dies, yet a glance after time

And a flash of memory mean the promise is broken,

The search begun again, for something deeper

Than this frustrating physical leisure where we never hit gold.