It is not something
That can be tied
Pulled to you with a rope.
Nor laced and bound
To feel its own every breath.
You can not lay it on crust
And taste it like lemon epiphany.

You can not steer it
By turning the wheel this way and that.
Nor can you feel it
By running your hand
Along the wallpaper's edge
In the middle of the night.
It is made up of tinsel particles
That only appear after the thirteenth hour.

A nicotine fit
A sour apple dream
An oblivion kit
A kiwi ermine scream

A cutlass blade
A bottomless well
A peacock shade
A pathos bell

It is all and nothing.
It is both then and when.
It is the why and the how.
It is the here and now.

It is the snow pepper future.
It is the black cherry past.
It is diamond lust glory.
It is every man's story.

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