What is “It”? A question often asked.
When I refer to “It” in poetry,
“It” can be anything from your past;
Like presents under a low-lit tree,
Or bugs that eat the dead friends of thee.

“It” can be the present, too,
The currents things you see and do.
“It” can be the smell of grass,
Or “it” can be a revival,
“It” can be death, but alas,
“It” could also be survival.
And if “It” is deep-dwelling worms
Covered in a grimy goo
Then you can kill “It” while “It” squirms,
Or let “It” squirm to you.

Why I write of “It” is multi-reasoned,
And by my lines, “It” has grow quite seasoned.
How “It” can carry so much weight!
– While remaining ever vague –
“It” can destroy, and “It” can create,
Remains silent, or spread like a plague;
But while “It” will build, or obliterate,
What we can do is try to elate
In the wonder of “It”
Before “It” is slit
By the Sisters’ of fate.

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