Turning

How can you pretend to lick your wounds while you split mine open?  You are the calm before the storm, your manipulation the promise of impeding danger, a break in the clouds, why most confess.  Your penance is the sweet irony of purgatory.  Do you even know?  Iron clad and, opaque, guessing in the dark.  I'm tired of feeling your walls, I'm taking the blindfold off.