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Nyctalopia

Two eyes looked into me through the darkness;
two shades darker
than the night that drowned them.
The eyes that opened
and the manner in which they opened
disturbed the unmoving night air
with the noumena of fear.

I was unable to
know why they chose me,
or from which distant deeps or skies
it was made, malignant and horribly alive.
No window can frame this,
no epithet can encapsulate
the dark indefinite borders
that ensnare the outlook
that grips me so completely.

When it was given the breath of life
that air must have transfigured
the sepulchral moon into
a melancholic vermillion,
discordant, and cholerically
circling the night.

Unable to see it
as it exists, in itself,
I am left only to assume
all of its essence, because

those mysteries close themselves
pitch drowns the dark vision,
the apparition seals
the window to the soul.
And I am left
unable to know, whether
it meant me any harm,
other than this.