There are times I wish for It
To yearn and sit idly as it envelops you
Seemingly and without actual presence
Like a hot, drenched air that forces its way down your lungs
There are times I dream for It
Only in fragments, sometimes clear, sometimes fractured
Parts are always lost, it hasn’t been whole for quite a while now
To force yourself to try and salvage the aftertaste
The things that I would do for It
To the past I would unwind and the future I would create using the thread
I don’t create a divinity but something is created in me
It is a blood, It is a silence, It is profound wanting
Vestigial in thought, mutating forever in ways that can be masked and hidden in plain sight
The things that I have done for It
For a control, For an overwhelming peace creating by a thunderous desire for something
It is something of an unnamed nature, omnipresent, and on the tip of the tongue, but unspoken, It has It’s dominion
Or so I believe