I am gliding through a wilderness of faces;

An endless sea of bulging eyes,

An eternity of pointing fingers,

Like little jagged hooks,

The curled dagger-like nails of a withered, old crone;

They follow me from destination to destination.

But do they see me?

Do they really understand me?

Do they hear me?

Do they even listen, or even care?

My spirit flies from blank face to blank face;

My mind soars to each and every empty stare;

To each extended finger.

I marvel at their ineptitude,

Their sullen ignorance.

But do you see me?

Do you really understand me?

Do you hear me?

Do you even listen, or even care?

I am floating on a cloud, but not aimlessly.

I hover above a vengeful, amethyst sea,

A waterfall possessed by hurricane whirlwinds,

Tunnels of swirling, grey mist,

Casting phantom shadows,

As it pours into a dark, underground basin;

Its tranquil spirits slowly enveloping my parchment skin,

Inviting my soul with its calm serenity,

Breathing warmth into me,

Bringing life to my soul.

But do I see myself?

In the cold surface of the mirror?

Do I really understand my woes? My needs?
Was that really me, I heard, on Thursday last,

At Midnight,

Crying in the dark?

Was I even listening?

Did I even care?

Do I even dare--

To ask that ghostly image projected at me,

Reflecting the depths of my soul--

Whose deep, ebony chasms are dark and cavernous?

With tearful sorrow, my heart aches for them-

They who are blinded by their own madness,

Their own bloody wounds.

My soul lets out an agonizing moan.

An eternity of bone-chilling loneliness hits hard and fast.