pratapaditya n deb - philosophy

Like a musical instrument or a blank page,

I sit quietly – potential energy

of infinite permutations and combinations.

The turmoil, the conflict, the urge, the reluctance

Constantly meeting the lone points of existence –

here and now.

A drop of ink falls to the page, slowly spreads,

Dries almost instantly. It’s the thirst. The thirst,

That cannot be quenched by water or wine.

A root shrivelled into disability, seeking neither water

Nor wine. But what?

Something; I’m not sure but I think.

The thought. The root of a possible insanity.

The coin thrown, falls, silently into

the fathomless depths of that dry well.

The thought. The thought. I think.

In solitude is comfort. And the root,

That sucks in biased truth.

In truth lies the wall, growing steadily stronger,

More solid, “further” removed.

In truth sits that dayglocrazie,

Like a blank page,

steadily disappearing into oblivion.

I don't understand the phrase "in truth lies the wall" but otherwise the poem makes complete sense to me.