Sighted But Sightless

You found me, while textured in depression, this evasive flitting; whereto, this dogma, where life is great, abased by realities; this contradiction, to live it by nature, confronted by conflicts; that inner dimension, this unfounded philosophy, while to appease strangers; but brave are souls, that venture at darkness, to share that tragic story: as treasured a legacy, peering at hazel shadows, permeated in sable eyes. You found me silent—to search for substance, at once, this needs for particles; to flux a heart, this cave of wisdom, at force, this course of beliefs; through time as cautious, this indignant soul, grounded in secrets; to find a chasm, this prolific fusion, as to extract pains; this reign of souls, that common thread, whereby, we trek through mire; this boldfaced lie, where tales are perfect—that intangible reality; to find this space, sealed in silence, this needs to protect our stories; this formal inflection, subjected to eyes, whereat, many see their reflection; while to scrape our stories, at wealth, this liberation, feuding with sub-brains. We met at pressures, to antagonize greatly, where silence became intrusive; to want that story, by design that surface, as to pretend a lack of therapy: that childhood grin, as seen in class, as to revisit a mental office: this charm of deaths, as formed analysis, to perfect characteristics; to see that face, painted in myriads, while to affect strangers; to realize wrongness, this askew reality, whereby, to see another’s trauma. It comes by agony, this breaking of traits, that schism of personhood. It shouldn’t be life, by one so dangerous, as coursing through sub-brains; that temple chamber, to measure confusion, this person by chance wounded; to disdain inquiry, that rounded table, where few are invited. You found us leery, peeking around corners, to judge beforehand for comforts; while running baseless, this face about races, to ignore that salient trait; while badly torn, shipping insecurities, through gaze that gesture. It becomes natural, that listless air, stippled by enthusiasm; for naked souls, this existential, while removed from others: this cold texture, that legend of pains, at warnings to play it cautious; or else for wars, that pushing of minds, to bend another’s reality; where tension churns, that lurid mentality, where colors clash.