Let this be known — or not,
but known in the knowing, that goes
beyond breathing.
Let this be taken — or not,
but taken beyond the steps of that
which has never been known, and
must not be.
We write the end of our own universes
and then scream over our losses,
sell out the very blood of our veins
to stuff them full of gold
and call it a trophy, as though the warmth
had only ever frozen us.
Well I beg to differ, and in this world
I shape and toil and spit on the corners
of reality and here, within the confines
of my own existence, build worlds
to be known, or taken,
or something beyond either.