A hopeless dagger,
Bearing itself against a monster
Whose fangs contrast it
Into dust.
This dagger
Is called denial.
If it shows itself,
It has already lost.

Two years between us, yet nothing’s changed,
I tell myself it’s fine, this shift is just strange.
No different at all, I say to myself,
while the distance between us grows hard to quell.

He drifts to you, like wind to the trees,
and I tell myself it’s nothing, just life’s gentle breeze.
No pattern, no reason, no cause to explain,
just the weight of a change I can’t quite name.

Now I stand here, the only one left behind,
watching you two bond while I fall out of line.
The closeness I imagined starts to slip from my grasp,
but I tell myself it’s nothing—just part of the past.

Grow, grow, grow!
They all said.
When was i ever little?
My memories felt facade.
A way to cope up.
I learned my mother's name by bleeding through it
and
my father's name through screaming it.
Everyone was once someone i tried to hid from.
I tried to run away yet i colapsed and sat on the very ground.
My years flew in denial.
So, next time when i haunt myself for the growth maybe i can repeat this again?
Yet i could not use this as an excuse or a treatment in bed.
This knots up nerves in my brain
How could i go without them?

Grief is a cyclic spell.
It loops.
It spares none.
It's inevitable.
This poem follows through each stage of grief like a spell—
Untamed.
Unbound.

— The First Stage —

Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep,
Disguised as excuses, seeping in deep, shaking core beliefs.
Should I care about them? I don't feel the need.
I am not in the deep!

I am so close to the...
To the conclusion!
To the retribution!

Indeed.
I know what I'm talking about.
For I'm not weak.
I do not bleed.

— The Second Stage —

Reenacting noir violence as something prophetic,
Proportional to the lethargy and lapse in memory.

Craving the caves as they
cave in melancholy.
Framing the phrase as they
phase in verbally.
Adding the daze as they
laze in physically.
Blaming the place but they
can't pace gently.
Desperate to bridge the gap so they
race profusely.

Virtuous? Why should I care about them?
I don't feel the need!
They never did care for me anyway—
even when I was drowning in deep!!

But now when I am so close to the...
To the destruction!
To the retribution!
They care? *****!

Indeed.
I know what they're talkin' about.
I am not weak.
And I refuse to bleed.

— The Third Stage —

Knowing the taste of fear they
made a note mentally.
Faster they ran to master it tactfully.
Dreaming how good it will feel if it ends silently.
Beaming with delusion they fell prey to cult activity.
Worshiping day and night, swallowed by ritualistic vanity.

Failure in results added fuel to the aggressive analogy.
Looking for meaning brewed life into inhumanity.
Myth or not, this bizarre journey
will lead to a dark ending.

But who's sane enough to reject the voluntary heretic ascendency?
Forget transparency—lowered guards breed corruptancy.

If I shall care enough, will I be granted a reprieve?
I can no longer swim this deep.

Almost there...
For the happiness.
For the redemption.
Away from the slip.

Tell me I'm not too late.
Tell me I'm doing great.
Tell me I'll be okay.
Tell me I won't bleed.

— The Fourth Stage —

Defence is irrelevant when you're deemed unworthy;
Among these foolish creatures none have a slither of sanctity.
Only the demonic hymn echoes through the monastery.

Surviving Curates pray for mercy.
The massive inflow of broken kin brings tears in the building.
The priest stays silent though, which enrages the victims.
They heckle at him and start grumbling.

Seeing the teary-eyed priest, they realise their wrongdoings.
Helpless and bound, the victims cry out for safety.

Whatever should I ever care for,
for nothing holds a meaning.

Am I drowning?
Am I swimming?
I'm lost in the deep.

So close to the...
To the silence.
The oblivion of reckoning.

Wish I was strong enough to change a thing.
But I was weak from the beginning.
Thus, I bleed.

— The Fifth Stage —

Eerily, the bewitching entity distorts it with ranting—
The entity, namely self-pity, flourishing,
Birthed by burdens, fed by the masses' frolicking tendencies.
Exuberates an overwhelming aura, seemingly understanding.

Careful—this is the seed of self-loathing.

"Verily, must it be prompting?
Must it be coaxed with hoaxes, propelling redundancy?"

You think no one resisted this hypnotic screeching?
In this abominable world brave warriors took a standing.

Vexed and perplexed, anxiety stacked,
emotional wrecks, Reaper's back,
falsehood's flag, regrets that drag,
weaker to help.

Yes, I care.
Care, because I know what it brings.
Care, for we all swam through the deep.
Care, for I am so close...
To the end and the beginning.
Care, for now I know the meaning.
Care, for I know what I have become.

Neither weak
Nor strong.

Care, because I must bleed.

For—
Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep...

                                                                                             -Asher Graves

It was not the beast alone
that hollowed the soul,
but the silence
that made a chamber for it.

The silence of fathers
who looked away.
The silence of mothers
who smoothed the tablecloth
and spoke of other things.
The silence of friends
who chose comfort
over confrontation.

Every unspoken word
became a shroud.
Every careful pause
became a nail.
Every smile that denied
became another grave.

The beast feasted,
not only on wounds inflicted,
but on truths unspoken,
on the complicity
of quiet mouths.

And so silence
killed more surely than rage,
for rage at least
named what was broken,

but silence gave it a home.

The deadliest weapon
that lays in the hands
    of Death  itself
    is not the sword;

but the silence sharpened
     against the soul.