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There are visions roving inside my head 
of a time and place where perhaps I once lived.
But how do I know of those worldly things
if I no longer exist?  I must question if I ever did.
I am off kilter, as if I'm an invisible entity, 
a salty speck of foam floating on a sapphire sea.

Should I feel dire despair, indifference, or jubilant joy
that I am not part of this place that's been laid to waste?
It's as if I'm surfing in shadows over what used to be
an amusement park, but the Ferris Wheel is broken,
and there's no spark of life anywhere to be found.
Only faded pamphlets lying on the ground, sun-bleached
remnants of the way life used to be, once upon a time.
I pity me for having been given this gloomy glimpse,
a vandalized view that no one could misconstrue.

I feel like Alice wandering through a frightening fantasy.
Desperately wanting to go back through the looking glass
and forget the devastation in which the world dwells.
If I ever had an inkling of what living in hell would be,
then in this chaotic clime, this dysfunctional dystopia,
I would seek to escape my existence and set myself free.

I feel the need for fresh air, but who would care
if I should have lived or died?  No one cried tears for me.
What future fate have I discovered with thoughts
hovering? Tragic thoughts that haunt me like a cold stare.
What ill winds have swept the world away?
Cursed be! 
How can anything exist is this sorrowful sepulcher?
I'd rather be a soulless specter without a home
then live among those in this lamenting land.
This is not Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.

It does no good to imagine a world without me.
Friendships made; children born; none of those would exist. 
I can only envision these things. These things that I've given wing. 
They roam inside my head, making me wonder if I had a beginning
or an end. I feel repercussions from having a discussion 
with myself over the conceptual conundrum of my existence.

Would I have been happy, would I have made others happy, 
or brought them grief like the thief who collects the dead?
It's a nightmare of reality, for I am sure it's not a daydream.
Greed played its Trump card and schemed to sit on the throne
in a kingdom I could never contentedly condone. 
I've no desire to dally here a moment longer, and
since I don't exist, I am certain I will not be missed.
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