Off it goes again. Grinding. Clunking.
Trying to refrain from stalling. Smoking.
Off it goes once more. Trying. Failing.
Trying to recall. Dying. Paling.

I know I’m awake but still thoughts’ll not come,
I try every day through the stars and the sun,
I know I am here, but I don’t know my name,
I try every year with my cold, empty brain.

There must be a mind half attached to this soul,
But all that I find is a vast, hollow hole.
There  must be a light, somewhere down in the ghost,
Be dim or be bright, or be neither or both.

There must be a face to bring me from this Hell,
Some sound in the space that’ll ring a faint bell,
There must be a memory, emotion or more,
That can rise up to meet me, to open some door.

A fact or a fiction. A truth or a lie,
To pull back the curtains consuming this mind.
If someone could show me a photo perhaps,
Or play me a melody from back in my past.

Or pass me a trinket that used to hold weight,
To help me out-think these old derelict wastes.
Or perhaps take my hand and speak straight through the fog,
And so wake up the man, wake the person that was.

And stop all this sitting, and searching alone,
And stop me from missing all I must have known,
As for now I’m misplaced – with no sense of my time,
And for now here I wait. With my cold, empty mind.