In silence carved upon the stave,
Where time forgets what it once gave,
There dwells a mark, both small and vast—
The fermata’s eye that sees the past.

It hangs like dusk on dying breath,
Suspending sound, inviting death,
Yet in that pause, a flame is lit,
A moment stretched where phantoms sit.

Beneath its arc, the notes grow still,
Their echoes loop through shadowed will,
A hollow crown, a gate, a veil—
A timeless hum, a ghostly trail.

It marks no end, yet halts the stream,
Distorting pulse as in a dream.
A breath held long in quiet dread,
A watcher where the music bled.

Some say it’s where the soul delays,
To glimpse the void through crooked phrase,
A frozen beat, a bleeding seam,
A whisper trapped in time’s dark scheme.

So heed the glyph, beware its sway—
Not all who pause will find their way.
For in the still, the eye may see
The part of you not meant to be.

🅰 🆂🆈🅼🅱🅾🅻 🆃🅷🅰🆃 🅱🅴🅽🅳🆂 🆃🅸🅼🅴’🆂 🅳🅴🅲🆁🅴🅴,
🆃🅷🅴 🅵🅴🆁🅼🅰🆃🅰 🅳🅴🅵🅸🅴🆂 🅼🅴🅻🅾🅳🆈.
🅸🆃 🅻🅸🅽🅶🅴🆁🆂, 🆃🅷🅴🅽 🅻🅴🅰🅿🆂—
🅸🅽 🆂🅸🅻🅴🅽🅲🅴, 🅸🆃 🆂🅿🅴🅰🅺🆂,
🅰 🅿🅰🆄🆂🅴 🅸🅽 🆃🅷🅴 🆂🅾🅽🅶’🆂 🅿🆁🅾🅿🅷🅴🅲🆈.