This distillation manifesting in peculiar patterns
Swirling overhead
With eyes that track indirect and understated
Waves that come to slight heads before
Dissipating, I've yet to see them
Break

And there's an agitated dash of nature still
Lurking deep
In blinding, binding, ever present light
In color schemes
That this changing property offers still
Strange it seems
In calm neurosis, slipping through the deep
Brings such panic

A rhythm imprinted in this form
An engraving of the time that passed
Not my friend, no not my friend at all
Such panic, oh such panic
Oh, whatever it is I hold, I've held some time before
What I release, I do so of my own volition
A half truth I'll see myself beside

As I lie still, eyes wide, glaring at the ceiling
As I die slowly, effortlessly, can't stop my head from reeling
Hollow victories
So preoccupied with afterlife; the only meaning I can see in the cyclic thoughts
Entirely dependent on what I can become

I lay on my back
I stare at the ceiling
Winding my mind up
Thinking in patterns

Down on the carpet
Listening to traffic
Grasping at ghosts
Feeling like static

Nothing is concrete
But this feeling so lucid
Demands that I try
To bury myself in it

To become a mold
Static like an image
To hold on this pattern
To hold on anything