One billion thought left in my head,

a billion synapses felt as lead,

slowing my spending sped,

even as I am free, we are all dead,

a phantom form of something.

This quiet lovely ache,

my mouth waters like a shadow though of steak,

it's truly a mindless derangement

a solely pointless fixture of my maintenace,

it's that sound across the board,

the constant shiver of the sound,

this perfect hell echos back round.

relaxing in it's folly,

a swallowing serenity

blissful orientation,

this rapid inundation,

this is a closer description than I've come to before,

there is no soreness settling down,

life is never complete

an incomplete account is all we can live.

acceptance is of something else,

the road to self release,

fullness is not satisfaction,

depression is not sadness,

more than deep reflection,

life is in itself a reaction,

at night we all see the same at some time,

within each others minds detractions.

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