The silence is an ocean of afterthought.
Late at night, awake in bed,
Slipped through the cracks of my mind
come crawling moments past,
and the restless nature of what they
mean stays constant; I'll never get
Even a decent night's sleep like this.
What then, when my tidal flood drifts me
away from any grasp? Not root, no leather, not a branch, no soft, warm hand. Am I produced madness, lost in a forest of my own ridicule? I have always been a fool. Always fallen easy for warmth, beauty, and speed. But this absolute hum of nothingness I hear is a great adversary, chewing up my fight, so now I'm very much "in it." Proceed with caution. I really don't know what I'm doing anymore. I think I lost a bet with time; now I drown in all it's passing,
in my mind.