Apr 5
Something clutches my chest—
a ghost-hand, tight as ivy on stone.
My heart, a trembling bird,
flutters at the edge of a storm.
The center of me burns—
a dying sun folding into itself,
pulling all light
into a single, aching point.
And there—
a tide of shadows calls,
dragging me down
where even dreams forget to rise.
a ghost-hand, tight as ivy on stone.
My heart, a trembling bird,
flutters at the edge of a storm.
The center of me burns—
a dying sun folding into itself,
pulling all light
into a single, aching point.
And there—
a tide of shadows calls,
dragging me down
where even dreams forget to rise.
The poem expresses the weight of an overwhelming inner pain—like being slowly pulled into darkness. It captures the silent struggle of a heart on the edge, where light fades and emotions become too heavy to hold.
