My love for you is vast and wild,
A roaring star in endless deep.
Through cosmic tides, so free, beguiled,
Your gravity—my soul to keep.

A roaring star in endless deep,
You burn within my boundless sky.
Your gravity—my soul to keep,
No force can break, no time deny.

You burn within my boundless sky,
A nebula of light untamed.
No force can break, no time deny,
Nor name the fire that we have claimed.

A nebula of light untamed,
Through cosmic tides, so free, beguiled.
Nor name the fire that we have claimed,
My love for you is vast and wild.

When half the world turns cold and fades to grey,
The flowers weep, their colors torn apart,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The skies once blazed with gold at break of day,
Now hollow specters whisper in the dark—
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey.

The rivers, once alive in bright array,
Flow silent now, as if they’ve lost their heart,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The echoes of a sun too weak to stay
Stretch long across the fields that fall apart—
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey.

No songbird dares to lift a tune in play,
Their voices muted, broken from the start,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

Yet still, I hope the hues will find their way,
That color will return where shadows start,
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

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.