To be something such as it is quite a discombobulate thing
For you never quite fit on any beaded string you craft.
Heart put upon heavily guarded display is found puzzling,
Yet the gaze still creaks along like an empty mineshaft.
And if one dares to explore the mind of something such as it,
The gamble of what shall be discovered is a thrill.
Perhaps you find a lantern of a painting calmly moonlit,
Or a fleshly embryo emitting a multitude of voices shrill.
It’s questionable something such as it lives upon us
From the reels of mental weaving scattered sparsely.
But within threads, one can see how rawly superfluous
A physical plane can be to those perceived sharply.
The mental weaving of something such as it
Is similar to that of a black widow’s own.
A fragile, beautiful creation of many captured tidbit,
Torn time after time, reanimated in a new coat of stone.
A dreamwalker, something such as it may be.
A permanent wanderer of a plane so temporary.
One that learns to master the art as a marquis,
Leaving with the flesh realm a husk body.
But to categorize something such as it is futile
For one is everything and nothing,
Both a spawn of peaceful and brutal;
A skin and blood key to an interdimensional wellspring.
