Tit, with Shelf Life
I think of it as a tiny Earth. A typhoon in a glass globe.
I think of it as blood beneath a door, faces on a vaulted ceiling.\
I think of it as a severed head, toe bone of a sloth.
I think of it as frightened, a twitchy metaphor, frightening. (Boo!)
I think of it as a random bird impaled on a random tree. (Hawthorn.)
I think of it as a celestial non-sphere: Phobos (fear) or Deimos (terror).
I think of it as a soul unraveling, newly dead (or newly born).
I think of it as a rogue wave, a (God) particle accelerator.
I think of it as a pit harboring a fruit tree. (Plum.)
I think of it as Ω or π or any transcendental body. (Uncountable.)
I think of it as Pu sliding off a freight train. (Plutonium.)
I think of it as a haunting, a bell tower. (A bell.)
I think of it as a pike with ulcerous flesh and missing eye.
I think of it as a cell whispering: I am in everything. Everything am I.