Like insanity this feels,
With this wreath of unreal,
Hanging over my head.

It is my funeral today,
And the mosquitoes are still sucking my blood,
Drawing it away from my head where it thuds.

I don’t really have anything to say,
Especially with my face this deep in mud,
Lost in the chaos of this flood.

What am I even trying to say?
Coherence is not a property of mind,
But being temporary, I’m also blind.

I feel locked in a transience,
Seeking that ancient future,
In the stillness of my spirit’s stupor.

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