When we lose our mind, where is it to be found?
The self loses form—an erratic dissipation.
An indefinite annihilation of the self.
There is no future. There is no past.
Just now.
A hall of empty portraits,
The pain in your foot,
The glass on the table.
You shovel sand against the tide
Of the all-consuming fog.
It quietly settles in your mind,
Fracturing family into fragments
While you desperately try to piece them back together.
But, the tide waits for no one,
and I am now nothing but an empty face.
Time melts away into oblivion,
hands pointing nowhere.
When you left your mind, where did you go?
