i am strangely disconnected from the world of things and people
not a thing i do does anything, all my talk is chatter that dissipates
shall i be forced to be a hero without a name? in living, or dying?
(the theme that plays in all my backdrops speaks deep of nothing)
wherein the dreaming of which, the thing never existed but there
in dark of sleep, no place to lay my things so they don’t disappear
for things forgotten never were, except the scars they left behind
(hidden behind all meanings is a shifting sand in which they root)
to discover i am bleeding time where the wit of others has cut me
for i obsess about all of the inconsequential things life is made of
and i have drunk so deep of its marrow now everything is shallow
