With each passing year I'm haunted
by the ghost of who I once was.
More lost with every passing day,
less me than I was yesterday;
and in a flash, I fear
I'll disappear.

There aren't enough colours in the rainbow,
nor words in all the tongues of the world
to paint my thoughts,
nor speak the words screaming in my mind.
So here I remain,
suspended in this unwelcome state,
until I
slowly.
Go.
Mad.