All Good Things

I would like to saddle this stampede of ephemera,

and ride it to the end of the line,

I want to reach deep into the ether,

and make that empty portent mine,

although these things never seem to keep,

once you harvest them from the vine,

I will attempt to vint their essence,

and get drunk upon that wine.

I try to quickly breathe all of it in,

before I get a chance breathe out,

it itches and burns within my lungs,

and escapes as a roaring shout,

I've sang it at the altar of permanence,

though I can't say I'm all that devout,

but you'll never know certainty well enough,

without a dance with doubt.