Passing Thoughts

There’s a secret doorway,
Through which they float in every night,
Like the moths chasing the light,
Dying, falling to the ground,
Morbid,
Sepia,
They have no texture,
Though, a certain brooding quality,
Brings them to life...
Thoughts, millions of them,
Passing, entangled,
Real, only in the confines of the mind,
They overwhelm the dark,
Insane
These strange thoughts, night after night.