plica semilunaris,
I see you from the corner of my eye,
leftover moonlit shadows,
sibilate bullet proof lullabies.
As the whisper turns into a sigh,
the murmur insinuates an intimate view,
we confide in the news of a,
discerned conception.
Deception of course.
You should of known those metaphors bought time,
to make it hard to find
what your eyes could see so clearly.
Nearly.
In retrospect prescience, presently knew.
Visualised you from another point of view.
And now in far sight,
hindsight betrays idyllic portraits,
never true in the first place.
So the worst case scenario,
typhlotic tyrants,
amaurotic darkness left sightless in blindness.
The darkness is an Alcatraz of bars made of gold.
Senses stolen from the repentance of souls.
Allusive in it's finest form.
my eye