The Waiting Men

Mind arrives in parts, first the fingers rubbing the face, and then arms allowing the round motion of force, but something is not right. His eyes open and his hands stay stuck. The waking up came with the usual features, but he did not wake up. He was just in a space for a brief moment. He did not nudge himself out of the torpor nor the lucidity. A dream it is, with its bleak and dim cloudy atmosphere. The whole scene is that, the sky with an overcast haze, but near the eye there is light enough to see through the haze, but the lambency is without a tell, as there is something that lulls the overhaul that is worldliness. Side by side he cannot move, neither can he shift his point of view. Something else becomes clear to him, a sensation of smell as well as hearing. Nothing he can do to chive them as well.

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In the meantime, the shadows among the dusty air became apparent, men in their tux, black coat and red tie. Horror arrived late but with their faces, which did not seem to be shown to him, they were misguided by the haze. Some outlines seemed to darken a bit. They stay and wait. Waiting for what? If nothing, they would try to help, but they keep on, sometimes even going close to each other. Faces were not abhorrent at all. His eyes cannot shape the colors to perceive them. They moved but in his mind the attachment was not there, what the living had provided, the keen sense of organizing. He had lost it. He tried to cry and to make noises much like a laugh. Sanity he was losing, but nothing came out. What he had hoped was that it had been a dream and somehow he was stuck in it.

Help me see the shining light,
this orange and red of sun,
stop it from burning.

Faces of those I ridiculed,
I made fun of them,
they have come to take me,
but where, and do I get a chance?

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