The Thing is Dead. Long Live Itself.

Transience, please meet
desire. Wants will
always haunt the tramp.
It's shady down here,
where the sun don't
dine. The edges of
experience hire
higher words,
underbirding 
with insufficient
binoculars. The grade
brags down the after effable,
developing a C in the middle
that notes the careworn keys
on this piano purchase, sold
by the temporary nature of
our times. I will cry and
have cried. That is how
desire died. Long live
desire.