This Thing

To want this thing, to live this thing, that much closer to this thing; the extent of her life, to barely touch the surface, to perish this thing. It’s the agony of heartbeats, to bleed this thing, influenced by this chase; to finally become—this paradox of dreams, twisted through drumbeats and soundwaves—as candent as spiritual rites; where seabirds watch, and whales tarry, a world through a psyche; for oh this thing, the beast of her breaths, the kef of her chessboard.

To want this thing, the act of his wheel, the puce of his veins. It’s ever this thing, his cake and coffee, his liquor and drugs; to live this thing, to read contemporaries, to die their verses; for oh this thing, the pudding of this pie, the sky’s intolerance; where a lance—crushes egos, to know a fraction of this thing; to perish in grays, the peaches of ink, to pause this thing; and oh the research, the constant application, the flute of his nightmares.

To know this thing, its familial essence, the dates of this thing; in which are fevers, for moments of death, to see self in this thing—its dreams, passions and ambitions. The story of this thing, to wrestle the greats, to channel their souls—forever at streams, the odds of this thing, the flutes, the harps, the violins! Oh the application, to memorize teachers, to ask for prayers, and devastated by this thing; to see it breathe, a pinkish rum, striving through warm chills.