XLI thinner

Some nights it growls, runs and runs and runs,
As hungry as a gasping fish for salt,
The dark half of the moon for want of sun,
A free wave cresting that's been forced to halt.
This gnawing sound quite outdoes K.D. Lang,
With it's innate regard for constancy,
This crackling and hypnotic pulling pang,
Has not an end in sight that I can see.
It's both ungentle and not rough enough,
Like wind on plumage of a pinioned wing,
It eats and eats and never gets enough,
Just thinner, (like that book by Steven King.)
  More thoughts like these pace up and down the bed,
  On all the wrong things I am overfed.