Swallowed By A Dragon Myself

I’m not interested in your shenanigans, I’m
not interested in anything, I don’t care to fight
monsters and dragons, it pretty much feels as
if I have been swallowed by a dragon myself

I’m inside the dragon, wallowing in the blackness
of dragon intestines and combing through the mine
of spiritual wisdom I’ve stored in my mind whenever
I’ve been bored enough to dig for pearls of insight

But though I try with all my might to take off in flight
into a new spiritual life; all I see in my mind’s eye is
the scenes enacted by my characters who have been
living in strife, even their shenanigans fail to elicit

A chuckle from me – so who is watching whom, am I
the observer or the victim, why don’t I laugh at the fun
my characters create in the story unfolding in my head;
why do they act independently of the me who is thinking

That I’m not interested in their shenanigans, am I not
interested in me? - if not - and the work on my table is
growing more wearying and immaterial by the minute -
where did my spirit go, is my body ill, or is it my mind

Who is on the blink as Wayne Dyer indicates? Maybe a
new edition of the Spanish Inquisition would be the only
viable solution to the existential dilemma of withdrawal
and depression in lack of interest in existential being

And consciousness aware of sensory stimuli – although,
to me, this is dragon-time, empty of meaning, empty of
me, I’m lost without my spirit, does the soul still exist;
if it does, it has become a dragon itself, swallowing

Time and meaning, devouring space and being, leaving
only empty space where I used to be…