set the scene, you are old. As old as any one you ever knew.
Locked in

isolated for the incubation of whatever they
they
they, these
masked  others,
I see eyes only, like if Lone Ranger were inside out,
where his mask is, is eyes and their fleshy environs
to the edge of brows, still effectively
arching, one by one in some
models of these hoo-min…
beings

whatever they swabbed in my gnose… is
working…
Things morphevolverevolve and twist to catch a beam
slipping past the shades,

see, there
in your eye, I see, that mote be me, my self,
might I

extract my self and leave you wishing for more?