Prose for Lyko

Good lord, I'm writing on request. I haven't done that in forever. Let's see what happens.

There is this thing that's like touching,
But touching's too much.
There is this thing that's like fucking,
You're fucking it up.

And there is no time, and no hope, and no place, and no you.
And there is no soul, and no love, and no need, and we're through.

And there is this thing, and I'm shouting it over the wall,
And there is this thing that you need and you'll grasp as we fall -
And there is this thing - but you've burnt it, you've destroyed it all,
This thing.
This thing.

There is this thing, that's like loving,
Except I can't love.
There is this thing that was beating,
But now it has stopped.
And there are these things that you take
and you pray it'll mend,
But these are the things that won't run,
that won't work, that just end.

And these are the things that they bear in their arms as you wake,
And these are the things that throw out all the things you must take,
And these are the things that they sing -
That they sing, on the wing.
Of this thing.
This thing.
This thing.

Well, it could have been worse.