Eyes of the soul
The eyes I have do not amount to the things I see.
Amidst the blinding lights, I suffer from the intensity of existing.
My eyes are merely a tool to complete my appearance.
I see what I see if and only if the girth in my soul allows me to do so.
In this wonderland of far-reaching dreams, my eyes betray me.
Eyes of supposed sight fill my pondering mind with endless visions.
Now my soul has intertwined with my eyes to make me see you.
In this wretched dreamland, I get
lost in the supposed sight provider of yours.
The endless haze of uncertainty radiating from you petrifies me in the place.
This is a dream! It has to be nothing but an absurd dream. How else would this superficial sight provider amount to such depth in a person?
How in all sense of truth does such a perfection exist within the confines of my vision?
This is the absolute torment that was waiting for me.
This tomfoolery of getting lost in such depth with a foreign feeling kills me.
If only I could hypnotize you to conceal that forest of eyes from me.
If only I had subjected myself to being invisible, to forsake these feelings.
But if that came to pass, how would I have been able to gaze upon such perfection that makes me go breathless?
This bafflement is nothing but the games of a soul, and I am nothing but a slave to this contradicting soul.
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