i heard conspicuously whispered the hushed lore of old

lying in your bed,

lying naked and cold.

my body transported,

forsaken completely, utterly forsook

left alone and to wander though my eyes dared not look.

i felt the heat, felt the cold, felt the soft touch of the butchers knife,

tasted of ambrosia, of honey, of pain and of strife.

heard the cries of the guilty and innocent alike

breathed the sweet and stale aether of cerulean midnight.

yet not once not for a moment did i happen to spy

through the haze of long lashes or tween crack of splayed fingers,

i saw not a thing yet the memory lingers.

it lies there sleeping, or at least it seems to me.

it awaits and it hopes my sleeping eyes may yet fail

to uphold their blind vigilance and at long last yet see.

ae.