Blindness.

I imagine a type of freedom beyond the waning lights,pretty faces pointed at in stark terror by emaciated fingers,colourless metaphors for astrology.It lounges amongst wisps of hairthat manage to bury a mountain of laughterunder the moon's illustrated sequel,every fibre alive in the passing linearity.Once sacred, now separate and sober as broken glass,the knees of heredity have jaundiced twice this evening,monotony and the lunar melding with the clear applauseusually reserved for a new symphony,(one that just stares blankly into the sun's blinding glare without ever blinking.)