The visioner

It starts as a whisper, soft and low,
A promise only you can know.
A fleeting spark, a borrowed light,
That warms your hands, then steals your sight.

It calls you back, again, again,
A velvet loop that tightens then—
What once was choice becomes a need,
A quiet, ever-growing greed.

Yet somewhere past the shadow’s claim,
A voice still speaks your hidden name.