Things never seen or heard or written about.
Nothing at all of any things.
All sizes but none fit,
Words given yet words broken.
Colours you would like to see but no colour as such.
Strange yet peculiar.
Registered as my own incompetency,
Maybe my heart’s faded inconsistency.
So in the mist – where sight and sound are blurred,
I must live in the deepest bed of mind,
Drawing meaningless hieroglyphics on the sand.
Evading sentences and blood writing in my head.
As if there is something to solve in this variegated cover of the earth.
In the caverns of my mind,
Where sleep is unsleeping,
All that I have to blame is me and the tragic bliss derived from my trivial despair.