He falls asleep without any thoughts
And awakes each morning
Living –
It is called,
But only through the memories
Of past memories;
Crawling through his lungs,
Heaving while his empty fists collapse
For lives past –
For the particles of meaning
And the substance of kings and poets.

His days this way are long and desultory,
But even so,
They are his.
Belonging only to him,
Until he falls asleep again
And the void consumes him
Once more.