There’s empty, open spaces once where things used to float about.
And those things were clinging to each word I said, and hiding in everything unsaid, and unseen.
Now, all my dusty daydreams are clearing away to make banks, and all hope washes in and takes away parts of it and flows downward.
If I follow this river and search for myself, will I see myself as a shadow on a surfaced rock, or will I see myself at the bottom floundering with all my life?
Could I see the sky then, is that the persistence of hope? Of dreams?
As I chase after myself, gazing hungrily at all I took down in my watery disappearance, will I have new things to keep?
Will I tire and breathlessly rest against the dusty beach of those things?
I’m coasting away, and yet still circling the same surrounding.