Sometimes I leave, I slip away,
I don’t know where I am or what state I’m in,
The pain in my brain often feels such fray,
And my soul feels detached and alone.
I would fall if there were such a place to fall,
But this place is no place – no place to be.
I try and I try to call and to recall
Those moments that lifted and brought such glee.
I cling to things with my hands,
With my mind, they simply decay by night,
O’ this place of no place is built on sand –
Of no dreams – but dreams that grip and hold tight.
The stream of consciousness in the mind
Is splintered and fragmented forming wind.
By James Booker