My Soul is a Wilderness

My soul is a wilderness, a vast plain open to the elements.
A single track leads to some oblivion.
Exposed, I stand in a void, black and hostile to the senses.

Breath and thought freeze there.
The unending outrush of air assails your ears with sweet messages of self-loathing
And the mire of a lifetime sucks at your toes, ankles, knees.

I manage to stroll a little further, to the edge of my mind,
Only to find makeshift scaffolding and whitewashed hessian sacks holding it all together.
How disappointing that it’s this and not art that adorns this internal world.