By the end, the coarse cliché
Lachrymose river
Gently drifts me through the gates
Of time itself.

But I am somnifluent
And the destination doesn't concern me
As I drift through time and
Fitful dreams.

In the depths of my coma
The comfort whispers
And do I give up?
Or do I keep drifting?

Or does it matter?
(It might not be my choice anyway)