Everything since we found comfort is due to that itch, It appears suddenly, the flick of a switch. Agitated by the lack of agitation, A skyscraper rising without any foundation. It burns like a brand, demanding attention, Insisting that you apprehend the misapprehension. It needs a scratch or something of similar fashion, A child screaming for a toy, no end without satisfaction. With it, something is missing, its presence marks an absence, A rifle with no furniture, the scales with no balance. Blindly and absentmindedly we quell it simply, As quickly as it began, and it is forgotten instantly. We return to comfort, perfectly content, And remain in this state, solid as cement. Until we begin to itch for another itch,