I immerse my hands beyond
the taut surface of reason,
where the night is not dark,
not deep,
but way hollow.
Curiosity keeps dripping
from the tips of my nails
until I scratch a dream, or two.
I always get caught by the muffled voices,
by the pats of nostalgia and wistful visions
that beat me lovingly yet thoroughly on the inside.
At times, I am scared to death,
but too grief-stricken to avert myself.
My insolence is fathomless, sometimes,
But this is not the season of remorse,
and I am not so full of faith.
My memory, as fragile as a dry thin stick;
I plunge into irrationality with no regrets.
I may have forgotten a lot of things,
including the path to repentance,
some thousand faithful nights ago
when I lost my soul in the cruel depths of sanity.
