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.