I’m insane, or at least not well, my brain
a flooded grave, the coffin cracked by roots
from a forest overgrown…she has slain
the dead once again, and from me no fruits
shall flower again; alas, I’m now dust
that once was flesh and bone, long since decayed,
crushed, missing and lost in Earth’s silent crust—
a flute gone stale or a lover betrayed
by time. O, am I really out of time?
May I not wash my face and clear my head
and try again, again, again?—To climb
from ruin and rubble to glory instead?
I’m not well, true, and well may never be,
but the sane cannot see what I have seen!