Nebulous sense of time,
No rhythm, no rhyme.
Am I real or just a mote?
Is this real or just by rote?
Missing sense of something worth,
Not sure of my place on this earth.
Soul battered by this scorn,
Tired, cast-a-way, so forlorn.
No safe, secure, resting place,
Wanting nothing but a warm base.
Sometimes colder in than out,
Just so damn tired of these doubts.
Nebulous sense of being adrift,
Am I really this bereft?
Rambling thoughts in the gloom,
In the dark what does loom?
In my shadows all alone,
Sinks into them deeper, with a moan.
shadowwv 26 March 2001
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