Rerun, Rewritten, found and lost, and found again, never forgiven

As I come down from this mania, I wake up.
I see the things I have done, and the stuff dug up.
I see the time has come back down
and slowed to an approximate second.
Time is not a construct, or maybe it is,
It was something I said.
To me it made sense,
all five senses did.

But time is one second, and sixty seconds is a minute,
and maybe in mania, a second is infinite.
But maybe that’s when you are waking in it.
Like a wave, it grows, until you are rolling with it.
The wave, hits, things go to shit,
and the hospital comes into the distance,
the view becomes less timid.
All of a sudden, it’s your sudden instinct
to get relief from it.

And you run around like monkey business
around the halls, to be a nurse or med assistant,
to witness, the shit that I did,
the embarrassment at the thought of it.
How the slightest sets you off in a minute,
and you are done being victim.
This is your jungle gym,
a prison without society’s restrictions.

I look back at the last time,
and I am still not right.
I am not right, my wife’s not right.
Nope, left a long wake behind,
when the tidal wave struck.
Manic mind, went to What the Fuck.

At long last the time is dialed back,
the sails been strung,
the sun is up,
the winds died down,
the course compass set.

And this ship
sails back in
to the harbor
to next day
set sail again.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.