The stars stretch wide, a silver-painted grave,
A man alone, adrift without a name.
His breath grows thin; the warning lights burn red,
The suit he wears a coffin wrapped in glass.
The tether snapped, the ship a fading spark,
And all he has are echoes of the past.

He drifts through void, remembering the past,
The choices made, the risks, the lives he gave.
The dying ship still flickers as a spark,
A beacon lost, too distant now to name.
He wonders if they see him through the glass,
A silhouette in flashing hues of red.

His visor blurs in fading streaks of red,
A silent film that plays upon the past.
His wife once traced her fingers on this glass,
A smile soft, before the call was grave.
They said his name—his name—he had a name,
But now it dims like embers in the spark.

His oxygen is fading, like the spark
Of engines gasping warnings lit in red.
He calls out once, a whisper of his name,
But silence only answers from the past.
The stars are cold, indifferent in their grave,
Reflected in the curvature of glass.

He lifts a trembling hand against the glass,
The frost like veins of fire losing spark.
The universe is wide, but still a grave,
A place where death does not arrive in red
But drifts along the corridors of past,
Unraveling the meaning of a name.

And what remains of him without a name?
A flicker pressed to light-years thick in glass,
A memory dissolving into past,
A signal lost, a beacon without spark.
The Earth will never know his warning, red—
His final breath dissolves into the grave.

No name, no spark, just frozen hands on glass.
The stars burn red; the past has sealed its grave.

You are the gleam that rides the midnight tide,
A molten thread through twilight’s woven seam.
Like fire opals set in dark abide,
You glow between what’s real and what’s a dream.

Your voice unbinds the air with gilded grace,
A lilt that bends the weight of time askew.
Within your light, the dullest forms embrace,
Their edges bathed in sudden, vivid hue.

Should you depart, the world would break apart,
Its colors drained, its echoes lost in black.
The sky would hold no sun within its heart,
Nor would the stars find strength to glimmer back.

Yet if the dark should steal your light away,
Your fire would burn within my soul to stay.

This, a rarity.
A stolen seashell
From the treasury of chaos,
My solitude.

Fortune favors the bold.
I'll continue to hide
With my stolen treasure,
Until chaos comes to claim.

The air is heavy with undone fate,
the sky, a wound that will not bleed.
Time stirs but does not break,
a serpent coiled, forever waiting to strike.

The stars lean close, breathless,
whispering of ruin too long withheld.
The earth quivers on the cusp,
but still, the fall does not come.

Let it end.
Let the sea unmake its name,
the fire carve its final hymn,
the wind unspool the last thread of dusk.

I have stood too long in the hush of collapse,
watching shadows stretch,
watching the world poised to fall—
but never falling.

Let the silence shatter,
let the weight be lifted.
I am weary of waiting.

I would you’d make me salt,
cast my name to the tide,
let the wind bear my ruin
to lands unremembered.

Twice, I split the sky,
unbarred doors best left veiled,
breathed storms where thy light
once lay unshaken.

Yet thou stand’st—
unmoved, unbroken,
a sky unyielding,
a river that takes all,
yet rages not.

Wouldst thou burn,
I should be smoke.
Wouldst thou drown me,
I should be rain.

But thou lov’st still,
and therein lies my undoing.

The meek nestles into the dark,
where power hums like a distant storm,
where strength, sharp-edged and waiting,
does not strike, does not break.

It does not cower.
It does not beg.

Fragility leans into force,
where dominion is not destruction
but a burden, a silence, a choice.

The strong does not devour.
The strong does not yield.

Between them, an understanding—
not spoken, not sworn,
but written in breath,
in the weight of stillness,
in the knowledge that power alone
withers without something to shelter,
and meekness alone
shatters without something to bear it.

The world does not see the balance,
but they do,
and so, for now,
they remain—unchallenged,
unbroken.

I heard them—
low voices curling through the dark,
soft as breath, sharp as broken glass.
I wasn’t supposed to hear.
But I did.

My name—
slipped from their mouths like a secret too heavy,
like a blade drawn slow.
And suddenly,
the walls felt too close,
the air too thick,
the space between us, a battlefield.

I knew what this was.
I’d seen the signs.
The hush when I entered,
the careful glances,
the way the night swallowed their words whole.

I knew—
I knew.

So I lunged.
Didn’t hesitate, didn’t breathe,
just cut.
Words like wildfire,
rage like a flood,
my voice a wrecking ball crashing through their quiet.

And then—
stillness.

No fight.
No denial.
Just eyes wide, hands empty,
hearts bleeding from wounds they never saw coming.

A gift, they said.
A surprise, they said.
A moment of joy,
crushed beneath the weight of my fear.

And suddenly, I am the villain.
The shadow in the room.
The storm where there should have been sun.

I built a monster out of whispers,
let it crawl into my bones,
let it tell me the only story I wanted to hear.

And now, here I stand,
watching trust turn to dust,
watching love fade into silence,
watching them walk away—

because I never thought to ask
before I chose to burn.