I'm off to drift into waters
Where nothing makes sense,
While still feeling so familiar.
There is a terror—
Or sometimes a comfort,
When the world is not your own
But made for you, by you,
And the only way to get there
Is to doze and fade and
Give in to the demands of
The burnt-out self that longs
For escape—
I just don't know
If I'll end up gleefully splashing
In a pond or flailing in a
Terrible ocean.