tumbling

quiet here on the east side of existence...looking for another way to plow through the fog...my brain is scattered on the shoreline...broken wreckage from years passed...i see a house as i walk on the deserted beach in the dead of winter, the cold of night...built long ago, but not too long...long enough that the builder is gone...gone upon the waves, out into the bliss...far from the shore...but not too far in the thought of existence, in the acres of time...so long a time it feels tonight, cooped up and lonely...too long a time to be here, to think here, alone...but in another instance too short a time...to be here, to think here, alone...and i miss you, and everyone else...i long for a nice stiff drink and a few old friends...their stories floating on the wind...the raw nerve is exposed, and the words fall away...
and with all the jacks and all the jills,
still an empty space that never fills,
with all the jacks and all the jills,
still an empty space that never fills...