Lethe

Dazed days of unwished wakefulness are weird.
The mind misgives the awful oddity
Of feeling fuzzy, stuffed straight and unsheared.
Undone, perhaps, part-piffled, set at sea,
Determined but demented, largely locked
Into an introspective unreflective urge
That, too-trifled with, is rightly rocked
By bold upswellings of the selfish surge
That traps the bent brain in its boistered brine
And makes the mind an anxious analyst
Of near-void nothing. Sea-salt slaps the shrine
Of intellect involved in mind's own mist
And all is air and foam. Forgot to face
A day, and dizzily surveyed the space.