Insatiable.

An empty place

It is, it craves

For something sweet

Or maybe not

For something crisp

More than just salt

For something light

That gives delight

For something succulent

But all is not found

Even as the second bite

Is taken; done

Lust fills the night

Beckons more come

Whatever it is

The substance now

Encumbering

An insatiable soul

Perhaps rest is what

Is needed to be known.