He stands like a mountain, unmoving,
carved from the stone of resolve,
his back turned to the whispers of yesterday.
Between him and the past lies a chasm,
a gulf no word or weeping can bridge.
His eyes are cast upon the horizon,
not with longing, but with defiance,
as if to forbid the sun from setting.

He is a vessel of will,
unshaken by the tempests of doubt.
The earth beneath him bears no roots,
for he has buried the seeds of memory deep,
turning the soil with hands unyielding.
He carries no questions,
only the certainty of his path.

The light of my soul falls upon his shadow,
but he does not turn.
“Walk,” he commands, his voice steady as stone,
and I walk,
my feet striking the earth he has shaped,
the echoes of my steps swallowed
by the silence he wields.

Behind me, he remains,
a sentinel, a hunter,
his hands heavy with the tools of finality.
He stands among the echoes of voices unheard,
the promise of thunder held in his gaze.
He does not falter,
for his is the burden of knowing.

And I, trembling in the shadow of his presence,
feel the weight of his unspoken truths.
He is the storm that loves,
the abyss that holds,
the force that binds me to this earth.
Though I fear his silence,
I know no other home.

The branches bend, the whispers scream,
Pop the bubble, shatter the dream.
Strawberry lips, sweet with rot,
“Can you keep a secret?” She forgot.

Violence bleeds, running cold,
Winter veins, no heart to hold.
Stone beats hollow, fire burns red,
She’s alive, but inside she’s dead.

Momma said, “Pick one or two,”
She picked him, she never picked you.
Cries fell flat, the echoes lied,
Left her kid to fight or die.

Throw a punch, break the skin,
Storm rolls in, let the dark begin.
Kick in teeth, spit out hate,
She’s the girl you’ll never save.

No sweet songs, no bedtime grace,
Just screams carved deep into her face.
“Strawberry,” she hums, sharp and neat,
“Can you keep a secret?” Her rage complete.

Spindly needles of frost cling to weathered gold,
the leaf bends beneath their weight.
Fog rises, thick and silent,
branches sharpen into knives,
cutting through the pale dawn.

The old man carves his talent into time,
death murmurs near, soft as breath.
A girl with fair hair spins barefoot
through empty streets,
fires burn behind her,
crosses inked on skin,
tears etched in permanence.

Lovers, unashamed, kiss carelessly.
His blackened hands bruise her pale body,
purple blossoms bloom
as their hunger devours the moment.
Eyes like lakes, the old man watches,
proud, detached, remembering.

The memory thrashes—a storm of fists,
blood on teeth, skies collapsing.
Howls shatter the silence,
the price of another hit.
Alone, crumbling, he danced once too,
selling pieces of himself
to keep the night at bay.

Now it is all a dance,
the endless illusion of nothingness.
Pain and relief close their eyes together,
fingers frozen,
pressing against the glass
of a universe crumbling to frost.