Clouded

The blank, egg-white slate
is ripping
is ripping
is ripped.
Technicolor thoughts
wait so I can catch you
Stopping,
stopping,
stopped.
Silent shouts
through a foggy dream
memories fleeting
fleeting
fleeted.
You are so irrevocably ruined.
You are a blank, egg white slate
of what you used to be.
Disappearing,
Disappearing,
Disappeared.