It began with a crack in the fabric of thought,
A wound where the echoes of yesterday rot.

The wind still lingers in corridors bare,
Sifting through ruins that once held a prayer.

The walls have swallowed the voices they knew,
Their whispers now drowned in the dust they outgrew.

A name once carved in the spine of the trees
Now crumbles like ash in the grip of the breeze.

The door stands ajar, but the threshold is blind,
No footsteps return to the halls left behind.

The moonlight weeps where the laughter once lay,
Its silver now tarnished in folds of decay.

The river once carried reflections of light,
Now drinks only shadows that drown in the night.

The mirrors are hollow, their faces erased,
No eyes left to hold what the past once embraced.

The books lie open, but silence has bled
Through pages where voices of ghosts should have read.

The scent of old letters still clings to the air,
Yet their ink has unraveled like time unaware.

The clocks have surrendered; their hands twist and pale,
Choking on hours that splinter and fail.

And still, the void adorns itself with stars,
Cold embers drifting through time’s rusted scars.

But the crack in my thought now threads through my chest,
A hollow where memory sinks into rest.

O dream of dust, unmake me, erase,
Let nothing remain—not shadow, not trace.

The gears gnaw through hollow bone,
Flesh burned to cinders, breath erased.
The sun is buried, mute, alone,
A corpse that stares from steel and waste.

The rivers choke in copper veins,
Their pulse confined to ghostly code.
The wind is crushed beneath the chains,
Its howls reduced to static, slow.

The past, a shattered thing, decays,
Its truth an echo in the ash.
An old man’s breath is smeared, erased,
His life dissolved in flickering flash.

And still, they sleep, with vacant eyes,
The mass unmarked by fire or stone.
The hour’s toll, a muted cry,
The final breath, a hollow drone.

A pulse that never reached the air,
where the ground cracks open,
but no weight falls through.

A flicker burns,
but the flame never touches the wick.

Time folds over itself
a thread pulled thin,
but not unraveled.

A voice is lost
before it’s born,
and nothing moves to fill the gap.

I drink the night where your voice once bloomed—
the bitter sweetness of it,
like blood and honey on the tongue.

The wind moves through me,
soft as the ghost of your touch,
hard as the emptiness where you left nothing but air.

I press my ribs together,
as if love were something I could swallow whole,
as if your silence were not the body I wear now.

The stars etch your name into the dark,
but they have never tasted you.
I whisper back,
but the silence knows me better.

Arrived as a shadow,
a breath in waiting rooms,
voices flickering like moths.

No gods stitched footprints,
prayers dissolved like ink in rain.

Paper thickened,
names erased.

Then, a hand—
a lantern through the dusk.

Pulled from refusal,
names spoken,
ribs stitched with letters.

No temple, no prophecy—
just a voice breaking machinery,
until gears cracked beneath it.

In the hum of verdicts,
a voice that did not break.

The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound.

I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize.

Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion.

Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark—
or was I never here at all?

In stillness, I inscribe your void,
A pulse drowned in distance.
You burn, distant,
A wound I wear to breathe.

Love— a murmur lost to glass,
A thirst in the marrow of nothing.