In A Fit of Pique

I did it
just to get it out
just to boil it off
just to make it so
I wouldn’t have to think
It’s a little bit like
when the seeds pop open
and the whitegreen things
reach for the up
and the brownwhite things
reach for the down
I remember
all the time
about the things I did
I remember
all the time
about how I’m still waiting
to hear back
from you
I remember
all the time
about the bottlecaps and butterflies and the songs and candles and gravestones and plagueships and medallions and decades that have gone by, years and years and dreams and whispers
and the only true thing
of all the true things
is that nothing stays
nothing stays

no thing stays at all

Which is, objectively, a horrible wonderful thing.
A wonderful horrible thing.

No good thing stays
but no bad thing either
so perhaps that is enough,
to know that it happened and the transience
is a part of it,
neither good nor bad,
just true.

I am all the things, linear and
otherwise,
and you’re just a dream of mine
but I would love
–more than anything–
to go back
to sleep.

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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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