Closing The Book On Sanity

 Traveling blindly
 Through worlds of the bizarre.
 Graffiti thick on the walls,
 Some so old that it's bored itself in
 Becoming part of the wall itself.
 Pains run deep here,
 Blood in the cracks
 Of long abandoned hallways.
 Tears leak from moldy ceiling tiles.
 I'm lost here
 In a world I've known since birth.
 Each moment stranger than the last,
 Each person somehow odder than the others.
 My hands:
 Stone, cold, white.
 My staring eyes,
 Seeing nothing.
 Unspoken words ring out
 From every corridor.
 What will become of me
 Here in these strange environs?
 My grotesque features move,
 Stumbling past dancing
 Miracles of grace.
 The floors are littered
 With times sands
 And faded pictures
 From my memories.

This poem is about: 
Me

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