I always let the ego speak,
its voice of shattered mirrors
and lips that never quiet.
But the poem is something else:
a refuge of monsters,
where the flesh of fear
learns to pronounce its name.
The light scorches,
oblong and pure,
tearing apart the shadow I thought was mine.
It is the truth:
a burning blade that does not console,
a justice that asks for no permission,
but burns,
but aches,
until it leaves me blank.
And in that maskless void,
who speaks now?
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
I always let the ego speak,
its voice of shattered mirrors
and lips that never quiet.
But the poem is something else:
a refuge of monsters,
where the flesh of fear
learns to pronounce its name.
The light scorches,
oblong and pure,
tearing apart the shadow I thought was mine.
It is the truth:
a burning blade that does not console,
a justice that asks for no permission,
but burns,
but aches,
until it leaves me blank.
And in that maskless void,
who speaks now?
