Odd

Strange thoughts buzz through my brain and settle down
Into a fine patina on my mind,
Green where it should have been a golden brown,
With bluer creases where it has been lined
With airy nothings. All is quite opaque;
What was a subtle and reflective tool
Is now far slower, though it did not break,
And leaves me feeling half again the fool
That I had been, for if I cannot think
What is the purpose of my mobile brain
But to be decorative? And so I sink
Into the morass of my mental drain
Wondering what had been shiny there
Had not my thoughts gone wandering somewhere.