I've been having dreams,
These passing few weeks,
Could be medication,
Could be my insanity.
A man, of twenty or so,
Wet, charcoal hair,
Stands before me.
And as I stand before him,
I look to his face,
But I see no eyes,
Only bleeding crevices,
That still somehow display sadness.
Eyes having been torn,
From their own wombs,
Let blood spill,
Onto a bare chest,
And broken jeans.
He bears no mind,
Stares at me still,
With no stare at all,
And I at him,
Mine no superior.
Surrounding is a corridor,
Many doors stand closed,
A single door at the end,
Showing the width of the corridor.
Beside my returning glance,
A wooden table,
That has visited my dreams,
Many times before,
And serves no purpose,
But presence.
The walls serve,
To hold the hinges,
Of so many doors,
But now they're falling,
And bleeding at the cracks.
Neither he,
Nor I,
Pay any such regard,
To morbid impossibilities,
I stare,
He stares,
We are sad together.
And I admire the dripping blood,
And how well it is displayed,
Yet he can not,
He lacks a sense.
Though this troubles me,
He is smarter than I,
He tore his eyes,
Like a splinter from his body,
For who needs eyes,
To see the persistent pain,
Of even the walls.
Or who would want to?
Look at me sir,
And I'll find comfort,
In knowing one thing.
I know.