It Poem by Daniel Brick

It doesn't demand, extra space.
As for time, it takes what is given
and asks for nothing further. In this
it is like a flower, whose petals
spread perfume for all to smell. It is
like a comet. sweeping across the sky:
just a flash of light, and darkness returns.
It is like a bedtime story that summons
immediate sleep. It is like itself,
a bell ringing in solitude, or a wounded animal
recovering in seclusion, or a demi-god
taking one fateful step after another
until he reaches the edge of his divinity.
It's like all of that.