There is a way my essence splits
And two versions of myself emerge,
But the first true version that split is gone—
It cannot outlive my tremorous surge.

Then there's a way the body lingers,
In rhythm, it moves but never leaves.
It's not a possession, or a common release,
Just a tethered echo in hollow needs.

There is a way the world curves wrong,
As if it's not spherical, rather concave.
As if we're not outside but inside the hollow,
As the eye leaves faulted perceptions of shape...

It's there, in the way the retina lies,
And spins existence before observed,
To let us know that we know what we know,
As knowledge itself grows faint to a blurry.

There is a way the hands disobey,
Keep reaching for love that never belongs.
They act as if they're holding puppet strings,
But their motion is that of a borrowed ghost.

There is a way my heart has thoughts,
And also a way my brain can feel.
The way that my body begs—
The way that I always forget to kneel.

There is a way my essence splits
And two versions of myself emerge,
But the first true version that split is gone—
These very moments my reflection turns.

Vibrations are humming beneath my breath.
As I gaze at a sky that forgot the time.
I'm kept in my silence, feels more like death,
As I entomb your words in my lucid rhyme.

My lucid dreams are of forgotten gospels.
Each is a doorway, but no two are the same.
Been here on the edge with your lingering echoes,
Since you stitched your own voice into ash and flame.

You've hidden secret keys inside every frame,
In the swirling chords of your painted hymns.
When I found the key, I whispered your name,
And a silence that screamed started pulling me in.

It said, “God must reside in our hollow spaces.”
Oh, how those words stab through me like nails.
My will to keep breathing left without any traces.
As for finding its hiding place, I always fail.

You always used to say, “Death cannot be the end.”
It might be something taught before we're born—
Like a stairway that hides beyond mortal bends,
On the path one might take when the soul gets too worn.

So does this body live just to shape the soul?
Is the form of its matter something we outgrow?
I think I'm going to smile through my final breath.
I want to paint the night with my afterglow.

Clock is unwinding all of its hidden gears,
And now time has become more like soft deceit.
I've carried carnal weight far past my weight in years,
Toward your heavy truth that still walks without your feet.

So, if anyone should ever call, and I don’t reply,
Don’t call it the end. And don’t cry or grieve.
“Choosing death doesn’t always mean one wants to die,
And not everyone goes through the secret door to leave.”

But in a dream I felt you vanish into pulsing sparks.
I watched your soul turn to light and ignite the void.
You said, “Not every light gets buried in dark,
And not every broken heart has to feel destroyed.”

But my heart is offbeat from your syntax, lost,
And your pain-ridden language, I can now translate.
You wrapped your silent, sacred gift in its brutal cost,
As you left to chase the pulsing light beyond the gate.