What is this unholy place in which I have awoken?
Walls so white with light so dark; I, a body broken.
I see no sky, nor bird, nor fly; and yet I surely see-
it hardly looks like hell, and yet it’s hardly heavenly.
I am still free, so happily may find some friend or wife-
but I’ve no need now for to feed the greed of prior life.
It’s best for me to rest, for life is lost on the immortal-
for surely I’ll discover no machine behind this portal.
Maybe by day there was a way for memory to cleanse,
but in this place there’s not a trace of doubt upon my lens
that every last ambition was a fever-maddened dream;
tales we told were not so old, but rather it would seem
the measures of all men were as the shadow of the steam
rising from the heat upon some trickling desert stream.