I think we are not real
We're just blurs and lines
on a sheet of paper
Who knows where we came from
Perhaps the floor beneath us
is just a shade of charcoal
Scattered bags and littered wrappers
are just echoes of fading ink
Perhaps the walls
are just card boards lined with markers
made to look solid and real
enclosing lead and charcoal.
I think we are not very real
Our silhouettes outlined heavily
with ink and pencil
All sharp edges and shallow curves.
I think I am not real enough
I am a shadow of a drawing
Perhaps I once existed
But I am no more than a smudge
I hear nothing that is real
only the vague music in my ears
And these faded lines.


I think I am fading
I think I've been erased
by no other than
Myself.