I am Witness.

This quiet room exudes,
in smoky memories and tattered thoughts
that drift beneath my senses,
an edifying truth,
a rigid, buzzing wall
of thoughtless facts.
I cannot touch them or see them
or even dream of their light airy existence,
but they make my blond hairs bristle,
and my eyes narrow in shape.
My lungs suck them through the dim light
and they force themselves into my blood,
my very heart.
Even if I leave, never return,
and even if the room turns black and burns away,
and even if I never drift again
in my mind to its shadowy attic ways,
a legion of traceless iota
have burrowed into my being,
an endless source of the room's existence,
and to it 'til my grave,
I am witness.