There came a point in the story when I realised,
this was not entirely a work of fiction,
I touched the precious page, reaching into the book,
A compulsion to sniff the ink and be a part
of the person who bled for me to remember.
The character lay there in the desert, staring
up at the stars, with the world spinning beneath him,
the way I used to, by the lake or in the woods.
Becoming one with a universe that had forsaken me,
or so I thought, that perfect moment as I would
stare out to sea, find the horizon I could no longer chase,
and discover; the fracture in reality.
Where one could not discern where the ocean stopped
and the sky began,
that cataclysmic event, when complete clarity
exploded in my soul with violent silence.
I spent a life-time trying to recapture that instant,
Opening my throat to imbibe destiny
but forgetting to swallow, fate escaping as I
exhaled and choked down the urge to expire.
I forget to regret,
Searching for sanity.