You will sit down to write a letter with no recipient;
You will stumble, but it will feel true.
Do you not stumble?
You will look out the window onto the empty street,
And appear to reflect; but it is appearance.
You are sulking.
You are certain that all the air in the house,
is conspiring to hum, and you will sing to it—Silently.
You will consider your noble deceased.
Those who left you here to finish a painting already sold, displayed, and burned;
It is with joy.
You will sleep,
And you will wake,
And it will be memory.
And even that will be memory.
The Ink will age, remembering.
And the inkwell gives, eventually.
You will consider the fallen snow,
The falling snow, and the unaware sea
That will soon watch his children be swept up,
Unto their perfect dream.
You will know each crystalline picture;
Named by our nameless admirer.
You will admire her; You may love her.
It is just fine to guess.
You will be studied by people.
People are studious.
Pay attention to the students.
They pay with their youthfulness.
You will open a book, and greet your reflected image.
It is image, Imagination, and already: Gone.
You will close a book and imagine another.
You will meet her a thousand times, or once years ago.
It will be years ago, before you know her.
It will occupy you. It will make its home in your head.
It will set up shop in your soul. It will commandeer your hands.
Don’t buy nothin’ just yet.
You will hear a different set of notes while wandering.
You will be in awe of many people,
They will applaud this.
It will be trying.
Try to become their applause.
You will have to become chaos.
You will have to collect consciousness without keeping him,
For the rest of the senses, the less aware, are waiting.
You will clap.
You will attend your friends ceremonies, your family’s rituals;
Your own funeral;You will clap.
You will intend to tell your father.
You will attempt to steel your mother.
You will extend the life of your teachers.
And you will end.
It is appearance: Image.
You will envy every lit candle,
You will wish upon each wick.
You will stitch her a wound that only you can undo.
You will put on a stolen sweater and saunter off to school,
And pretend to be your pupil, but you will not be in her eyes.
You will see: it is sight.
She will look, luminous.
You will keep moving.
You will find yourself an old forest.
You will befriend the picture, the shoots, the stalks.
Then you will fire, you will light, will—be done.
It is Appearance: Joy: Image: Will: You will be done.
"Will" By Youngblood Brass Band.