Point of Entry

My fingers are feeling through my brain.

Feeling for some sort of clarity.

For a small taste of thought,

at least

 

but nothing.

Just a starving mind

of baron wastelands run dry.

Shrink wrapped out of air

 

A derelict space of dying plants

and seedy suicide faces.

Crying,

in the promise of eternity.

 

Just another fruitless journey,

into the depths of my drained head.

My point of entry,

is the same way that I leave.