The Thing That Has No Name Poem by Marilyn Odeon

What is this thing, I do not know
But if you also feel it, pray tell me so
It makes mush of all my reason
My yearn for it, unending in its season
It's in me, around me, always in sight
In the morning, afternoon and night
Its not welcome, as is same for all ill
But does it listen, it lingers still
My knees are weak and won't hold up
For much longer, if this doesn't stop
My heart I find, is most pleased with this secret
Of the malady that ails me, whose truth I cannot ferret
For what it's worth, let history recall
That if it kills me, I died happiest of all