Miss That Which Was Never Had.

This desire burning fire,
Consuming dire, temperance’s pyre,
I wish to hold,
In my hands icy cold,
To touch tenderly,
This thing floating free,
Why do I feel the sting,
Of missing something,
Which I never bore,
Yet it stings my core,
I wish to drink up,
Yet ‘tis not my cup,
I wish to consume,
Yet I can not assume,
To take what is not couth,
Like a fallacious youth,
I wish to hold it in my arms,
Washed in the swaths of its charms,
I wish to taste and see,
If the flavor be,
Soothing to the soul,
Or grating like coarse coal,
But that which I desire,
In this longing fire,
This thing I miss,
For which I remiss,
So why is it then,
Do I miss when,
I have never had,
Why then am I sad.