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.