Moon at Half Past Noon

Half-truths are whispers the sighted perceive,
A fractured canvas where deceptions weave.
But I, unburdened by the visual lie,
Find solace where true intentions lie.

I am blind to the hues that the world holds so dear,
The vibrant distractions that foster its fear.
No envy of emerald, no longing for gold,
Just the warmth of a hand, a story unfolds.

This world’s rampant greed, a spectacle bright,
A blinding display of grasping for might.
But darkness descends, a merciful screen,
And the hunger for more remains unseen.

I trace the contours of a voice sincere,
Unburdened by smiles that might mask a sneer.
No judging the face, the attire, the guise,
But the resonant truth that within the heart lies.

The colors of anger, the flush of deceit,
Remain hidden textures my fingers can’t meet.
Yet the tremor of tension, the hesitant breath,
Speak volumes the vibrant facade keeps from death.

Perhaps, this absence, this curtain of night,
Shields me from shadows that masquerade light.
For in the stillness, a deeper sense grows,
The pure, unvarnished essence that truly bestows.

So let the sighted chase beauty’s facade,
And stumble on truths carelessly trod.
In my world of darkness, a clarity rings,
The honest vibration that true feeling brings.