I woke, after the fever dreams, Having slept in a bed of my own making. Feces, And Vomit, And Sweat, Were my blankets and sheets, Dousing me from head to anus to toe, Yet I was relieved, To no longer be in that awful landscape of dreams. The dreams had masqueraded as premonitions, Vile premonitions of what had happened in the past, And worse yet, what happen in the future. I saw an honest man, from an ancient empire, Executed on a stagnant pond, A victim of Scaphism. I saw living humans, healthy and chained and shackled, Being built into the walls of Monasteries, So their screams of hunger and thirst would be as silent as the Monk's prayers, Hysterical women having ice-picks shoved through eye-sockets just so they may calm down, I saw children being sacrificed by willing parents who were too ignorant to realize they were sacrificing their own children. Learned and acclaimed wise men saying that their was no danger, it was for the best to slice off the genetalia and reform the form of this child into their own image, and pump them full of potions, making them act in unnatural ways. But I woke, I woke, and was happy that it was a fever dream, Despite being covered in piss and shit and vomit, I was happy to be awake, Because reality was nothing like my dream.