It

It

It. It is, per—haps, Absolute, meticulous, and indifferent. The will of someone.

It is, perhaps, An accidentally beautiful intersection Of random, fleeting things.

It is A straight line, a parabola, A perfect circle, tangled yarn, White mold blooming beautifully, An eccentric bald eagle.

Advancing, dispersing. Like white mold spores. Perhaps retreating, plummeting. Like a bald eagle. Perhaps.

But whatever it may be, It radiates an eternal temperature. Be it cold, hot, or lukewarm, An existing temperature.

What does it matter? To one so ignorant, Merely advancing and advancing, Perhaps within the zero gravity of gravity, Having crossed over some distant horizon— To me, It is so difficult, Yet so simple. To you, to him, to her, to you as well, To everyone who is lukewarm,

Sometimes hot, cold, relative. The absolute—It. It.

It