Na Toca do Raposo... in the Foxman's lair. Dark and gloomy as a burough should be.: Halls of the blind

Since my last poem sucked, I wrote an old poem for old friends.

I can see what you see not,
visions milky then eyes rot.
When you turn they will be gone,
whispering their hidden song.
Then you see what you cannot be,
shadows move where light should be.
Out of darkness, out of mind,
cast down into the halls of the blind