sense

Mind has turned to mush,
Have not written for weeks,
The haze, the rush,
Taken days,
The daze,
The shops.
Too much time spent,
Not well enough.

The bleary eyes at two pm in the morning,
No structure, no clue,
It’s not about me,
It’s not about you,
It’s just the weeks and weeks of nothing to do,
And then in doing,
Doing only you.

And somehow sense in my head turns right round,
Looks at me,
I turn away and let it go,
Let it become something other than sense,
As the days pass,
Then the blur,
Then the daze,
Then the haze.
Through the days,
The daze,
The rush,
Then something else,
Then this.

Nothing to report,
Nothing to miss.

If it made sense at a point,
It is a point that has no point to its own being,
Blame it on the rollers,
On the sniffers,
On the cold.

Cough and splutter all you like,
But everybody knows.

Still we look for more and more
To fill our empty time,
But the looking fills the time instead
And the more that we obtain,
Is nothing in our time.