As one who looks into a light,
For much too long,
I too so do.

While I look too deeply and tight,
For much too long,
At you so, too.

Or have I only prolonged us again?
Because the others had denied us then,

[But we deny them]
And through our defiance,
We are delicate.
Are we the result of intellectual appliance,
Or perfect like clockwork and intricate?
The result of a truer science.

Or our vision has been currently inverted,
(Or another word,)
And perverted with incisions,
Into our corneas in septems,
Pervading us in our precision,
(As if lost for words,)
Invading the light spectrum.

[But we untie them]
And through our religions,
We are selected.
Is there a resulting intellectual origin?
Or dated as textbooks and disected.
The result of a theory proven.

As one who states that which is right,
Or much too wrong,
I too so do.

While it reads too narrow in sight,
Or much too wrong,
To you, so too.