The story is always going;

I take note but once in a while,

the scene is fluttering & flowing,

each day in the whole but a tile

The bedroom is clean and fresh,

a month being flipped in the almanac;

I inspect my decaying flesh,

make note of what I lack

This house is like a ship on the ocean;

that sound of geothermal heat

that you hear if you don't make a motion;

when there's neither rain nor sleet;

that safe & secure low hum

of the force of hear & now,

insistent like a distant drum,

beyond any why & how

But the windows are getting thin;

the days just a bit too long

I've won all that I can win,

but still can make things wrong

There's not enough left to do,

but I still don't get it done;
I can't tell what I am, or who;

the guy in the mirror doesn't look fun

This body is an existential measure

that I have to figure out;

it used to grant some pleasure;

now for the most part doubt

The choices used to be endless;

now nothing seems to last
The end of the day is pointless;

most associates dwell in the past

The light is full of sand;

the night of evil dreams

Someone is leaving this land;

it must be me, it seems

Time has me worn & torn;

soon I've nothing to spare;
I was direct, now forlorn,

can't recall all I'd dare

I'm like a lighthouse out at sea,

with all lights off, for no one to see;
I watch the back of myself disappear

into a there where there's no here

But there's a sweet breeze of Nothing

playing with what's left of my hair;
Nothingness feels like a good thing

as I'm sinking through thin air