The Woman Who Tried To Steal My Eyes.

She came with questions shaped like prayers,

her words clothed in holy calm.

The glow of her screen lit serpentine green,

soft as silk, cold as harm.

Her smile was smooth as oil on glass,

her voice a lull between the storms.

She spoke of light, of faith, of peace,

but shadows coiled beneath her forms.

She asked for sight, not truth or name,

to peer where mortal gaze should end.

Her pupils flickered, catching mine

a mirror dressed to feign a friend.

My eyes began to ache and blur,

the world grew sharp, then strangely thin.

A whisper stirred: She is not yours.

And so I shut the door within.

Three nights she waited, pressing play,

each time her phantom tried again.

But prayer rose fierce, a steady flame,

and sight returned, unmarred by pain.

Now silence guards the threshold still,

where screens can tempt, and serpents feign.

I see her not, but feel the chill

the hunter lost her mark again.