The billionaire has everything he needs yet lives like he is lacking, scrambling through the night like a felon dodging daybreak desperate for a high, trying to catch a moonbeam in a flask. What is he searching for? What is he running from? Anything and everything. Because that’s what billionaires do. He returns to his two-bedroom by dawn: not a billionaire’s lair but that of a tragic romantic who has received “every spiritual blessing” yet needs his tortured soul to be inflicted with the ache of his longing, the addiction of resolve. What is he searching for? What is he running from? Nothingness, which is everything. Because that’s what artists do. The lust of his sweet longing is all he thinks he needs.
By Stephen Copeland
This poem was first published on copelandwrites.com.