I want to be made, just a memory,
not concrete, just something abstract,
a play of the mind, real or unreal,
a question to be answered, but never been,

I want to be made, just a picture,
body-less, with nothing, to key the clogs
of a futile mind, left unacknowledged,
but for my colors grimacing at you,

I would want to be, just a single word,
you would sometimes, recite in your sleep,
having no soul, no truth, no reality to cope with,
defined by those letters, stringed together,

I would want to be a ripple on the pond,
in which you can see, your own distortion,
ignoring the worthlessness of me, the me
being left whirling around, in concentric circles,

I would want to be, the blow of air,
that comes by, to kiss your cheeks,
and you take it in, not having seen me,
being I am nothing but gas and vapor,

I would want to be, a single grain of soil,
indistinguishable, among many others,
of the same size, color, and shape,
broken up into a minute existence,

I would want, to be the dew drop,
of your red eyes, unnoticed, sneaking,
surviving in your pain, I am lost
when you wipe me away, to oblivion,

I would want to be a thing with no life,
for life has betrayed me, much and I shall
rest, as that memory, sand grain, blow of air,
or eye pearl, ripple, picture or just a mere word