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I shouldn’t be here, sleeping not by choice:

potion holds me.  Unholy healing witchcraft

shows unseeing eyes dark images dancing a brilliant array of contortions,

swaying, seething, suffering as

I watch in delighted horror.

Enveloped I sense the presence of those who would wake me

from visions: they come and go unpredicted.  Clinging still

an aftertaste of the life that was.

Images return, bringing drumbeats:

Arrhythmic thumping,

thumping,

thumping.

Indecision weights legs now heavy;

I cannot.

I will not.

I want not.

I shouldn’t be here where I can feel the pull of my heart’s breath;

my veins and I float in calm terror.  Clarity has fled

chased by swelling colored shapes.

The hue of life tries a return.

I sense the call away from dark dancers.

New light comes to windows unused, unfocused and

contortionists take a final bow.

I enter an uncharted wakefulness.