Slipping into a series of waves
the waxing and waning of a dulled mind
piecing yourself together in the darkness of caves
trying to feel, to breathe, to find a kind
of peacefulness in the wreckage of your soul.

But nothing comes to you
as you search for oblivion in the smoothness
as you crave for the perfection of two
human beings that would replicate the likeness
of your parents, of your friends, of the picturesque
ideals of intimacy that you carve into your desk
as you sit in the wreckage of your soul.

Eventually you seek to silence
yourself, after the sleepless nights, calls of dawn
begin to splinter into spiderwebs, the perfect balance
breaking and bending, and everything you’ve drawn
so lovingly on your desk breaks and echoes
madly, deeply, wonderfully bellows
with the wreckage of your soul.

While others sleep and the children slither
back beneath the bedroom covers while parents wither
and your mind crumbles and the television blares
while sleep nurses all of their cares,
you remain, alone and awake, an insomniac
mourning your own loss, yourself, dressed in black,
beating your breast and wondering if, in fact,
there is nothing else left in the world for you
but the wreckage of your soul.