Until the Sun Set

I think this poem was written around the time I was going through my depression in college. It's a very old poem and I want to go through now and edit the heck out of it, but it is part of me at the time I wrote it. Here goes:

Until the sun set,
I sat along the shore
and waited for some reality
to hit,

wading in the sand
under a heated sky,
with strange particles
floating around my head,
my feet so settled
that they burrowed
themselves
within
small holes
that I had been forming
for hours,

And,
my mind wanders
between thoughts and conversations
and the breaks that come between sentences.

The strangest ideas
breathe when you least want them.
They bloom like an unlikely flower,
deviating from its normal course.
If you look closely
you can see the thorns thickly stuck to the stems,
a colossal vine reaching beyond the eyes and scalp.

Something seems missing,
without a placement or reaction,
something burning like electrical wires
that hang partially
above water.

I can remember the links
that have bridges,
but this one had a miraculous birth
that is unoted
in any century --
thousands of years apart --
in its strange,
rusting vice.

I've had many of those thoughts
where the rust is newly chipping,
never resurrected.

God never told me that he would return.
He remains in Heaven,
silent,
reckless,
speaking in weary tongues,
with Jesus who is ready to die,
putting his hand on the base of the sky,
to puncture with his teeth.

I lay directly under his hand,
these teeth,
and look down at the ground
where strange creatures
are crawling
to their homes
and ants become martyrs.

I traveled distances
that I can't recount,
but something holds me back --
the mother
the father
in consecutive sequences
like dividing numbers
in their unholy massacre.

Holiness has failed to convince me,
fails to return itself to its proper form,
underneath the strange burrowing ground,
under these creatures,
under my feet,
under Jesus' hands and teeth
and God's body.

Spirits float above,
with their alter egos
waiting below the water,
where I watch the sunset
pulling itself between ten
condensed forms of water
that fail to break
under the weight
of my rusting vice.

The brain in parts,
the brain imparts
strange thoughts
in imperfect time
in perfect time,
where their vines
are stretching between the right
and left,
imagination-reality
searching for its equal,
searching for its forgotten soul,
searching for its condensation
and the strong pulses
that
finally,
clasp
it
shut.