This poem was written in a form that its author invented.

I’m done arguing about the inventions.

Poetry only.

I think it may be a requirement for a poet to become lost. As a prerequisite.

And to find their own way “back.” Or forward. Or through.

Maybe there’s no going back. Alter Bridge said so.

Awake to the fact that there’s no going back

To this world in which I’ve been living

I was searching for something but found less than nothing

Of course, it goes on into bigger and better:

I hope I find some peace today

It seems I’ve gone away

It seems I’ve lost myself

It seems I’ve really lost my way

It seems I’ve lost myself

It seems I’ve shed my skin

Oh, are you ready for me?

Which suddenly reminds me of The Lindworm.