the glass stood tall once.  
       smooth, untouched,    
               shaped to expectation.  

then came the fall.  
the slip,  
         the drop,  
                 the ruin.  

hands hovered over the wreckage,  
  whispers of what was,  
    what could have been,  
       what will never be again.  

    no one wanted the pieces.  
           no one knew what to do with them.  
                they stared, they sighed, they left.  

      but someone stayed.  
             or maybe no one did, maybe just the dust.  
                    just the dust, and the silence, and the weight of absence.  

gold is a lie they tell to make it bearable.  

   it does not erase the cracks.  
      it does not restore what was lost.  
         it only makes the breaking visible.

   not untouched,  
           not perfect,  
                   but standing.  

   they call it beauty,  
             but it is only survival.  
                      they call it art,  
                                 but it is only memory.  

       if light filters through the seams,  
             does it mean it is still breaking?

Black boat warped and charred,
will you sing for me?

Under the sobbing star
reaching for what once was.

Lost innocence,
the dance of the drowned.

Does the whirlpools gluttony
consume all that hopes?

At the edge of creation madness cradling whatever is left of peace.

Solace and sand trickle through
time and space.

So let sit the lone lily,
floating through annihilation.

To my gaze
Your shadow in the moonlit night
Always seemed boundless.

In endless rain,
Your bleeding heart rusts.

Under the sun,
My eyes are blind to evil.

A love that yearns for shelter,
vision craving foresight.

Seeking solace we fall apart.

It has been so long
Since I put my cloak on
To hide behind the closet
to look within and forget.

When in thy darkest depths of sorrow's night
Thy hearing failed, and silence took its toll
Thy music, once a flame that shone so bright
Didst seem to fade, as darkness didst unfold

Yet still, thy spirit unbroken didst stride
And in thy heart, a symphony didst reside
The melodies, a raging fire that didst provide
A solace from the pain, that thou didst abide

And when thou didst compose, thy music's might
Didst conquer all, and brought thee back to light
Thy art, a triumph o'er adversity's darkest night
Didst shine, a beacon bright, that guided thee to flight

And thus, thy legacy lives on, a timeless sound
That echoes through eternity, and shall forever resound.

𝐀 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧;
𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞,
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦.
𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭...
𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 ?
𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐨;
𝐀𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬.
𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐨𝐡 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲...
𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭;
𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐞𝐭,
𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞!
𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡?
𝐎𝐫, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 ?!?
𝐓𝐡𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.

- 𝗔. 𝗥𝗼𝘀𝗲

Dust and Tattoos

I.
I thought I’d carry myself whole,
from Budapest’s bright embrace
to the dusty arms of home—
lessons etched as tattoos,
whippings turned wisdom,
the shine of surrender
making me anew.

But dusty roads have a way
of stealing your breath,
of burying who you were becoming.
Smoky windows blur the light inside,
and the life I learned to live
is suffocated beneath the weight.
Dust settles in my lungs,
on my skin,
and I am buried within myself.

II.
Oh sweet home, oh sorrowful walls,
your cracks hold my history,
your air is thick with stone-throwers.
A mother who never looks my way,
a sister carved from favoritism’s stone,
a brother who screams his poison,
a family that taught me how to ache.
No corner safe. No love unbarbed.
Each breath is a wound
and every wound is a lesson in survival.

I survive.
Not live.
Survive.

III.
Then, there is Kay.
Kay, with his better house in town,
Kay, with his borrowed peace.
Five years marked in love and betrayal,
a love that wears masks,
a peace that feels fragile,
a solace that cracks
when I’m not near his arms.

I detach to protect myself.
Switch my soul off.
Learn to find my peace in distance.
Even with him, I know:
the dusty town still calls me back,
its fingers curling at my ankles.
The cycle repeats.

IV.
But this time, there is hope.
This time, I whisper to myself:
maybe one day, the cycle will break.
Maybe one day, I’ll stand in a house
where no one has thrown stones,
where the walls hold only my voice,
where survival isn’t the rhythm of my days.

One day,
I’ll rise brighter than before,
tattooed lessons shining on healed skin.
One day, I’ll step off these roads
and never look back.

V.
But for now,
the roads are dusty.
For now,
I go where the dust consumes.
For now,
I survive.

Country roads, you know what to do.
Lead me home—
but one day,
lead me away.