Comes a time when blindness is a skill
Going up when you are old makes a creaking sound
Flying over, gliding numb on time that has no when
swooning over shiny objects, misconceiving questions blinded by reflection, another meeting falters since bullet points have been denounced, foolish puffins flailing at the air
He takes me by the hand again, we gone fishing by the shore.
Bewitching brings its own magic, so says Saramago
Into the same lightness set you free