This is not a song, either.
This, scribbles on a page,
is nothing of consequence.

It is but an exercise for my hand
[an effort to maintain my penmanship],
and perhaps for my mind
[my sanity].

An attempt to loosen the bolts,
which keep everything locked tight.
A mere effort to coerce the tumult of my mind,
to spill out onto the page, and arrange itself neatly.

This is not a poem, like everything else I write,
but it has brought some organization
to my scattered mind, this night.

We lie straight as pins in our graves.

Drifting through nights without life,
Listening to the sounds of other people's silence.

Does your gray empty reverberate the same as mine?
Does the ticking of the clock and the hum of a dimly lit lamp echo through your mind?

In the night I hear your soundless lonesome.  
I am a collector of fatigued expressions and once inhabited places.

We all lie as straight as pins in our graves, drifting through.

Moments ago,
Summer gave way to fall as it eternally does.

Moments with you seem lost yet immediate.
A day spent carefree, surrounded by water, isolated from the world.

Recent experiences are elapsed into a fraction of a second, bringing me back.

Back to days without an end, or time to tell age.
We are who we really are in the light of the sun.