The air is a buzz of quiet light,
like the hum of moth wings, soft against dark.
Electricity cracks open the sky,
a pulse running through veins of gold and blue,
flickering like the last breath of a fire
scattering sparks over the skin of the world.

In this moment, the earth shakes and breathes in crisp shadows,
while we are lost, dust in our veins, curling into the depths of  each other
a dark shadow of light, a flicker of stolen time,
the silence between us sharp as broken as jagged rocks that the surf washes against.
Here, we are not broken, we are not shattered , we are not destroyed
but bent like light through a light prism,
refracted into infinite pieces
we cannot hold.

Beneath the river's mouth,
the blue moon is a torch
its flames, a dull whisper to the sky.
Phosphors pulse, like ghosts still singing,
their song an echo between the stars
where the universe falls into itself
again and again.

And in the empty spaces between this world and the next,
I hear the wind carry whispers
of things I have yet to say
sweet against the ache of silence,
spinning through the dark like forgotten names
long lost to time’s hunger.

The light dies quietly,
but something of it remains
like the taste of honey on a tongue
that knows nothing but ash.

Time catches its breath,
waiting for the sky to remember
what it once was,
before it was just air and dust.
Before it was just a ghost,
walking the line between becoming
and nothing at all.
The air is a buzz of quiet light,
like the hum of moth wings, soft against dark.
Electricity cracks open the sky,
a pulse running through veins of gold and blue,
flickering like the last breath of a fire
scattering sparks over the skin of the world.

In this moment, the earth shakes and breathes in crisp shadows,
while we are lost, dust in our veins, curling into the depths of  each other
a dark shadow of light, a flicker of stolen time,
the silence between us sharp as broken as jagged rocks that the surf washes against.
Here, we are not broken, we are not shattered , we are not destroyed
but bent like light through a light prism,
refracted into infinite pieces
we cannot hold.

Beneath the river's mouth,
the blue moon is a torch
its flames, a dull whisper to the sky.
Phosphors pulse, like ghosts still singing,
their song an echo between the stars
where the universe falls into itself
again and again.

And in the empty spaces between this world and the next,
I hear the wind carry whispers
of things I have yet to say
sweet against the ache of silence,
spinning through the dark like forgotten names
long lost to time’s hunger.

The light dies quietly,
but something of it remains
like the taste of honey on a tongue
that knows nothing but ash.

Time catches its breath,
waiting for the sky to remember
what it once was,
before it was just air and dust.
Before it was just a ghost,
walking the line between becoming
and nothing at all.