by Sam Ward ’21
The only thing I fear are these perishable thoughts.
I grasp onto them like they are golden-tipped winged shoes fluttering above my halo’d mind.
I clutch them close like the cross my grandfather bore around his neck, falling gracefully over his beating chest.
I behold them like Eris’s apple, the idyllic piece, missing from the grandest schema.
I grasp. I clutch. I behold.
I grasp them until they float from reach, transcending, elevating, leaving this earthly coil.
Winged shoes become fabricated visions.
I clutch them until they melt into my chest, burying themselves deeper than Freudian wizardry could uncover.
Even silver crosses turn black.
I behold them until they become objects of fantasy, distant, sublime.
Golden apples must rot, too.
Careless, I would be, without these perishable thoughts.
So I continue to
grasp, clutch, behold:
and write it all down.