This Thing

It’s not a thundering

but a rhythmic stutter,
a seizing beat,
a rapidfire-horse-hooves-in-the-mud kind of pounding,
like it could
break through
its bone cage,
a strange clattering
of opened-wing hopes
and clutched-talon fears,

a gasping,

reaching,

aching

kind of pulse,
a throb
with force enough to
bend backs
and weaken knees,
with power enough
to raise gods
and topple empires,

this whole,
this thing,
this heart,

and

in its echoing chambers,
the name it sings
is yours.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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1 Response to This Thing

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who can say so much with so few words, Jones.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

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