i was not there

Here she lies,

in her bliss.

Her mind strips, slowly, away

from any sense of the tangible reality

of which she tastes herself in,

of which she feels herself in, and

of which she associates herself with.

Here she lies,

but her bliss is yet to be found.

It is somewhere else, somewhere

where she lost her mind,

shattering any connections to herself

like broken shards of glass,

sharp and misunderstood,

but misunderstood only to her.

She was out of her own control,

and her senses,

no longer her own.

As she drifts away,

through the thin fabric which holds her

and restrains her

no longer

from reaching where she

needs

to be,

she breathes for the first time.

She feels all that there is, and

she senses

nothing.

There, she does not need

to be

her,

because she knows that the warmth

which consumes her

and wraps around her

is not her,

but a being,

a vessel,

lifeless in its gift

that is complex and completely untoward,

its gift of life

that is feared and warned of.

There, in the cognizance of the

under blissed

and the cognitive understanding

of the blissed,

she becomes

it.

It

is all that she needs to be.

Through the veil,

into the other world,

it slips away

into grime,

into the mere undesirable of the life

which it was

granted.

As her eyes closed,

consciousness fell from its fingertips

like heavy rain

dripping heavy drops

from a heavy storm,

but it was calm.

In all the chaos

which was not there,

its world shifted, turning to colors,

colors that were unimaginable

yet so vivid to it,

colors that were not palpable

yet so coherent to it.

It would feel drawn

to this world

beyond belief and

beyond perception.

This world which carries

dreams and nightmares alike

would devour it

before it gets a chance

to open its eyes and

fly

away from the light and 

away from the dark.

In its newfound lucidity,

with its eyes closed,

it breathes.

This world

would inhale its breath

and accept its sacrifices,

though those sacrifices

were unwilling from it.

This promised great escape,

where she would become it,

was a trap,

and she was caught.

It was a butterfly

with its wings

torn,

though promised its cocoon was a place

of prosperity.

Still, it flies to this place,

willing in consciousness that is not

its own,

and she sleeps.

She dreams.

She breathes.

Still,

she wakes.

stay good.