Occasionally,
The brain sinks into a state of undead,
As if even in the afterlife I'm cursed to think.
What a relief it would be,
If all the passing time that tortures me,
Is nothing but eternal day in a sluggish, everlasting rest.

Even the memories,
A past I long to stay in,
Yet one I could not wait to leave,
Are only color-stained within photography.
Who is sheparding my thoughts?
Are you asleep on the job?
They're on a rampaging stampede,
Mindlessly trampling me underneath.
****** hoofprints drag bits of scattered matter into dusty wasteland,
Barren, dry, and with no end in sight.

Tapping those frozen, innocent smiles,
Adorning every "########" you've captured,
As if it could transmit back into me,
That youthful vitality.
Bitter tears and sour defeats,
For the worse, have changed me.
Without a place to stand,
How can I ever steady my feet?