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Isle of Nought
Stranded, strangled, lying
Dead. Entangled in the moss,
Soon to find that I’m not dieing
But dealing with a loss.
Not a loss of physical nature,
Nor a loss of self control.
But instead a loss of mental fixture,
Taking insanity for a stroll.
Upon the cloudy seas of doubt
Tossed within the murky waves,
Sanity shaky, but mentality stout,
As my psyche stands and rants and raves,
Then I, myself, begin to shout.
The deafening booming of the silence I hear
Is more than I can choose to take.
Filled with brave new types of fear,
The stability of my mind now quakes.
Upon the sandy beach of naught
Is where I am now, left in the lurch
All that I have truly sought,
Is run aground like beach wood Birch.
I slowly walk to loneliness,
And rest upon its banks.
I stare up at the moonless
Sky, and at my heart it yanks.
I fall asleep beneath the stars
And wake up in my bed,
Cold sweat dripping, small wet scars
From my arms and on my head.
Every night I find myself,
Going back into this place,
The land collapsed upon itself
Expanding in skeptical space.
Hard to tell, which of the two
Is real and which is fake.
Hard to tell which lie is true
While caught in negates wake.
Seeing is believing,
Or so we are all taught,
But in my land, all is deceiving
Within the isle of nought.
