A flame whispers, its voice too soft to scorch but powerful enough to alter the air.Beneath, the earth stirs, roots curling like the breath of the forsaken.
Every step leaves a mark, fading before it brands.
We bear silence's weight, hidden beneath skin-shadows that refuse to yield, flickering in light.

Ignore the fibers,
scorched to ash—
the fractured sky bleeds silent light,
where names dissolve like lost prayers,
and time is a body unbroken, yet hollow.

But under the ruins,
the same pulse reverberates—
a seed splits open,
drenched in the same rain,
thirsting for a soil never touched.

We are the void’s breath,
woven in the skin of stars,
lost in the endless touch
of the same hands
that never let go.

I fed you my ribs.
You crossed without looking.

My voice curdled to salt.
You spat. I rotted.

I placed my pulse in your palm.
The veins unraveled.

Now, I dissolve in your breath—
a ghost too thin to haunt.

The rope slumps—an unstrung throat.
Pills rattle like broken teeth.

The mirror unmouths my name,
gulps me in glass, spits static.

Outside, the city chews its own tongue.
Streetlights pulse like exposed nerves.

I step forward.

Or maybe I don’t.

The night swallows.

Nothing shifts.

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.