I slept through the night and then the morning,
waking and returning to a dream.
Each time I observed the change in light,
slowly coming to glow through the warped glass.
Day began as it was becoming night,
in the place of intense remembering.
When I can't see it,
it doesn't move.
This is the past.
It makes me see truth;
what must die,
what I must kill,
what I must pry my knuckles off.
But I've been here before.
I've seen myself there now.
I've sung to these walls.
The haze in which I see all stretches there, now.
It's the highway.
There's some conclusion to which I'll fall.
For now? I'm nowhere.