A young man of blue eyes sits there,
upon the top of the gold-plated stair,
as but in a dream you walk ahead,
waiting to be awaken, washed and fed,
but alas, that will never be, you know,
never again are you near the trees below,
persisting final stairs, he beckons you by name,
his eyes seem to glow as if a flame,
he looks at the gash across you neck,
which is producing the red you detect,
murdered in wisping night you were,
he says as if speaking a cure,
he waves his hand over the painted bowl,
writhing with stories spoken and told,
reflections without source dance,
revealing your body with lost stance,
left to eternal slumber in murder,
Left with but a final moment of blur...
