Life, mean—

Unkind it seems.

A battle fierce,

A shattered dream.

Yet in the dark,

A spark still gleams,

And through the storm,

Mankind redeems.
How do you feel,
as you carry on?

Is life meant for you,
or mean all along?

It calls, sharp as a crack in the sky—

is it a hand reaching to lift me,
 or my own voice,
 drowning in its own echo?

The wound hums with the weight of rescue,
 but I wonder if I’ve always been

the one to pull myself under.

I drag this weight,
 each step a crime against the ground.

Am I a ghost,

too solid to slip away,

or an animal,
 broken, bent,
 flesh tight with the burden of living?

I cannot call myself human—

humans ache with love,

but I am jagged,
 a wound that won't heal.

Too wild to tame,

too hollow to be held.

Time to vanish—

to dissolve into night,

my absence felt by none.

In the hush of your name, a storm is stilled,
A prayer, weightless as dusk fading to nothing.
You pour through my veins, dissolving into me,
A secret I've longed to keep.

Swallow me whole—consume my need,
Until silence is all, and our voices are gone.
I crave your stillness,
A balm that heals yet burns—
My anchor, though I float between breath and oblivion.

You cannot stay forever,
And I cannot breathe without you.
What is life but a flame too long held?
A flicker that burns and fades.