i have seen him. the old man. dressed to the nines in second hand comfort and hand me down shame. creased and calloused are his hands but smooth to the touch. glassy, clear as crystal grey eyes bleed out viscous and painfully slow, colouring an otherwise colourless sky. he hears the blue blood of his veins, thick and rich. he has eaten with desire, sat at her long banquet, drunk of her wine but never once filled anothers cup with his own sickly sweet and salty spirit. slyvan and seafoam creep round the edges of a pleasant countenance. half smiling sneering leering aching and bloody in the briars waiting watching hoping and hating. nary does a trace of the Sandmans sweet surrender, inky black or lulling content sully his eyes or weave its subtle spell round lashes beneath behind between lids and through endless battle for wakefulness...

(to be continued)

ae.