Senses

She sits in the air,
blind to the watchers and windblown weeds. Unseeing, reviewing a lost countryside; memories painting a personal mirage. Where bodies never move, and the blood never dries.
She sits in the air, Drifting, slowly spinning or darting away. Virtigo a constant hell, no weight to give meaning to down, no touch to define the location of self
She sits in the air, Does she cry? Oh yes, for hours. But convinced in her deafness that none can hear, she despaires in her isolation.
She sits in the air, No scents to delight, nor taste to savor. No distractions from memories of pain she longs for the comforts that death snatched away.
She sits in the air, Insensate, unresting, mind slowly decaying. Time has no meaning without changes to mark it. Century-old grief and rage fresh as the grave's dew.

When a non-corporeal entity notices you, be very, very careful. You posess everything they crave and despair of ever knowing again.

— Antonio Cornelli