I am just a thought. A passing through the world’s mind. An idea etched in bone and flesh yet beyond the grasp of time. I am a hunch, an indecisive reckoning, a calculated risk that bends the present like forged steel. A supposition, a trying theory, an inkling printed out of nothing. I am suspect, unreasoned, unfinished, an unlikely answer to the problem of here. I am vowels and primes, tempo and rumor, rummage and torque, insinuation and allegation. I am a dream lost in the laced light of dawn. I am memory and gratitude, I am the curiosity of wind and a contraction of light.
I am a blessing arising from nowhere, the hesitant clout, that chattering contrition of fall. I am the birthmark of failure, a husk wind-tumbled and thunder-borne. I am cunning blunderingly measured and the mannered curse. I am the orbits’ druthers unfound and forgotten. The untraceable route of the dragonfly. Dreamish. Coltish. Landless. Stone-floated. I am hungered by woe and driven to track the lost share of the waning gibbous. I am fallowed and makeshift, an evening’s pitfall, the snub unshackled and stolen from under some thawing remorse. I endure like a shallow spring, and inside the mindlessness of heartache, I am a hinge on the glib edge of sin.
I am crippled and hobnailed, eavesdropped and gambled edgewise, limber as fence-bounding gossip. I am a drained bonebed, the chaff of a shabby summer. I am scabbed and mired in woe, the mourner of tethered yearnings and witness to the flocking of quandaries. I am bedlam, bloodied and pearled, a scathing baffle twitching as if driven to shear some unkempt wrath. Bruised by guilt and cancered with regret. I am bellyache and blame though choked like a wedged flue. I am shameless, despaired, underbred, and endlessly gallowed. I am a knot of tangled doubts, both threatened and threat. I am silent as runes, raked and stammering, and loose as fondled lies.
I am the dew-lapped lope, the greenbone adrift, the rustler of scruples, and the sunbound mote. I am the ironclad latch on suspicion’s door. The skeptic’s conscience swollen with yoked warnings. I am an ingot of dread, hollowed and jarred and weightless as dawn. In the glare of given vows, I reek of buckshot and hoarfrost. I am forsaken and nettled by midnight, its voice a spur in the thicket of youthful longings. I am begotten, bereaved, belated, bequeathed. I am kindred of leech, marrow of shame, and hackles raised. I am thrashed and thronged, the spinning vane in a whirlwind of gripes.
I am reckless and grave and lambish, a hindrance to mourning and a burden to malice. A shim under the loose window of hope. A slanted shaft badgering darkness. A blight on crackpots and churls and a needler of nine stitches. I am shrewd and sprightly in a throng crowded with despair and a witness to the nimble dreams of yesternight. I am hoodwink and stickler, fluke and drudge, bustled and binged, a homely chink and hedge against the roving scathes. I am splinter, dredge, throttle, and fang. Though I am haggled by jabbering fears and unstanched scrapes and plight, I whittle away. I trudge on. Gristle-coarse. I try. I am.
As should we all as the world winds on.
So must we all.
