Only if it holds some sort of importance?

It Pours into me.

Weather rich or poor doesn’t matter when you’re a castaway 

The rich content provides food for thought.

With a famished body, vanishing waist-line 

but a corpulent mind, 

survival isn’t a question.

Might be a rotting corpse,

but different choruses

corse through my veins. 

The rain may cover me,

but remixes and covers

coat my ears smothering pain.

Music.

Waveforms, waves, sand grains.

Graves of raised hands

leaning against the engraved gravestones  bobbing their heads back and forth.

A phone might be conducive,

but inducing dopamine’s the only thing keeping me free.

Keeping a friend would fend off fear, but no.

Keeping a pen, sending for help could take years.

No bed, no aim to head home when cordless headphones take you anywhere you can envision.

Just me.

A couple songs.

An Island.

An imperishable decision