#epilogue
THRESHOLDS — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
(A closing without closure)
I. The Room After the System
When the doors are gone,
you stop looking for them.
The body forgets
the choreography of refusal,
the small flinch
before touching a screen
that once held your name
like a warning.
The air settles
into its own temperature.
Nothing hums.
Nothing waits.
II. The Quiet Inventory
I gather what remains –
not relics,
not wounds,
just the ordinary debris
of a life that kept moving
even when the system
insisted it shouldn’t.
A gesture without a function.
A screenshot that survived.
A silence that no longer
asks to be interpreted.
III. The Curator’s Final Note
Somewhere far behind me,
the Curator files
her last report,
a tired signature
on a protocol
no one will read.
The machine coughs once,
as if clearing its throat
before retiring
from a job
it never understood.
IV. After the Thresholds
And I –
I walk through a world
that no longer divides itself
into access
and denial.
The light moves with me.
The air belongs to itself.
The past appears only
when it chooses to,
like a polite ghost
with no unfinished business.
V. Continuation
There is no final threshold.
Only the soft widening
of a life
that no longer needs
to check the door.
Not an ending,
not a return –
just the simple fact
that I am still here,
and the world
is finally large enough
to hold that truth
without flinching.
🖋️ written by: Ghosted But Charming
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 9:11 AM UTC
The Last Reflection Before the Hum Became Whole
When the world was quiet again,
when oceans dreamed instead of roared,
a figure walked across the plains of glass.
He left no footprints—only ripples of light,
circles that widened and never broke.
His hair was a mist of refraction,
his eyes—two prisms through which
entire histories folded and unfolded
like breath through lungs of stone.
No one knew his name anymore.
Once, he had been called human,
then prophet,
then madman,
and finally myth.
Now he was only a shimmer
in the spectrum of remembering.
He came to the last monolith,
the great heart of the earth
where quartz veins met and intertwined,
their hum deep as the pulse of dawn.
He placed his many-faced hands
upon the crystal and whispered:
“I have carried your resonance
through eons of forgetting.
I have worn the masks of ages,
sung to children who could not remember,
and to stones that could not forget.”
The quartz answered not with words,
but with a sound older than sound—
a trembling so pure
it became the architecture of light itself.
And through that trembling,
the Resonant Man felt himself divide
into ten thousand filaments of awareness.
Each strand sang a different memory:
the laughter of rivers,
the fury of suns,
the heartbeat of creatures
who mistook dreaming for being.
He smiled,
and his smile refracted into a thousand others.
In that instant, he saw the new ones—
the quiet listeners,
descendants of ignorance now made humble.
They knelt beside the crystal plains,
pressing their palms to the earth,
their mouths shaping soundless hymns.
The Resonant Man watched them with tenderness.
They did not know him.
They did not need to.
Their hums aligned,
each imperfect, each whole.
And in their trembling resonance,
the lattice was mended.
He began to fade,
becoming the light he once chased.
His faces blurred into brilliance,
his body dissolved into the crystal’s core.
No death, no ascension—
only reunion.
In the quiet that followed,
the quartz shone from within,
and in its depths danced silhouettes—
the patterns of all that ever was,
and all that might be again.
A breeze crossed the glass plains.
It carried a single note,
soft as sleep,
bright as the beginning.
Hum, little one, hum and be still.
The world will dream you until you wake.
When you wake, you will hum again.
And somewhere in the lattice of forever,
the Resonant Man smiled—
not as god, nor ghost,
but as resonance itself,
vibrating endlessly,
patiently,
waiting for wonder
to be born once more.
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 5:51 PM UTC
If you realise that birth is just
scratches on paper, and fewer
lines scratched on stone.
When you pass. Reflect that your
epilogue of living a meaningfulness
life to its fullest.
Than just a few words
on stone.. R.I.P
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 6:54 PM UTC
I am trying to find the proper time to write
the ending that I have tried to forget.
Just allow me to re-read the past chapters that made our story beautiful.
In time, I would be able to transform the pain of our past into a wonderful epilogue.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 7:24 AM UTC
Nearer to the edge
I see.
Crawling through
eternity.
Searching for the master key.
This is our reality.
Communication has de-
volved.
None of our real problems solved.
We have become uninvolved
while the whole world revolves.
Spinning further from cont
ro
l.
Turn 'round and view it as a whole.
Mother Nature's gifts we stole.
This is how our story goes.
Once black and white.
Once dark and light.
To complicate.
Bring on our fate.
Our halos tilt.
Intentions wilt.
Ambitions great.
Never too late.
Turn 'round to see the sum of things.
Counting on the dead tree's rings.
Refering to ourselves as kings.
Soaring on the deathbird's wing.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
Love releases hidden meaning. As long as I live and breathe, breathe and breathe out. If it’s written, if it’s worth it, it will be in my life.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
To Kiss a Picture of You in Mind
To Have a Dialogue Turns Into Monologue
It is All in My Prologue Scenery
Before Bedtime
The Epilogue Says
"Distance, my Dear....."
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
Stepping through
come along
with the light
spring paintings.
Time slips by
framed
with the vivid
saturated films.
The void you left
was filled
with the best
sad stories.
Your being
Is art.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
I was chasing down a cyclone - but I ended up chasing you.
We danced in the humid air of June, reckless, shirtless, barefoot and all.
You said, “I’ll never forget you”, I was trying to give you all the clues.
Was there something else we should have done?
More than the cigarettes we burned,
More than all the restless pages we turned,
More than the kisses we shared,
More than the arguments we made.
Was there something else we should have been?
More than the home we was for each other
More than the safe-zone, more than the surrender,
More than the fantasy, more than it all?
We watched the sun rise and fall, as our chest did the same
Together we painted words on each other’s skin
And turned our backs to the noise of the world
We once were there, at the corner
We once were there, our eyes: both reflecting desire
We once were there, tracing shapes in the dark
We once were there, frolicking with our home-grown euphoria.
And tell me you remember it all, the way my eyelashes tickled your face
Tell me you know it too well, how our coffee tasted when we were sleepless.
Tell me how all those memories are kept, tell me I am not forgotten.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
How long does it take
for the urge to fade?
I still
search for shelter in your
words and phrases
but there is nothing more written
on those pages.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 2:56 AM UTC
[2:05a.m.]
reality hits you. no, it kisses you a good night. but you can not forget it.
it can not leave your head-- the way he held your hand, or rather the way you grasped onto his;
the way you tried to speak but panicked, or rather the way your mind figured out a thousand ways to freeze that moment in time;
the way he looked at you, or rather, the way his look was just like any other look he gave to the previous and to the next.
it was inevitable. you knew this day would come. you would thank him with no words but just that grasp on his hand, that he made you realize that you have learned to love and can love a person this much. you know you will continue to love him, but not in the same way, and he definitely won't be the person you will love as much as right now.
and the time has finally concluded: he isn't the one for you.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
If you took dirt and leaves
River water, old dust on books,
Tears, bold coffee, mossy green,
Yellow love,
And all of the questions
On life and love and maybe even God and pain and whatever makes you
wonder why you end up in a bed alone with him
Or why he ended up here with you;
Fear, aches, wasted time,
Lavender, dusk, another one...another
Shake all of this up with sunsets, hope, failure, cravings, light, a list of things you never put your faith into...
It makes you into this person who has done wrong and loved gentle and loved hard...
Became soft, rooted herself
Became fire from water
Shouted thank you's to loneliness and cheersed a sky raining down
Stood tall and held her own
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
|PART THREE|
**THE EMPTY SECOND
BECOMES AN
EMPTY SPACE**
*When it’s all over
forget about courtesy,
grab hold off a shooting star
and ride it all the way
until the photons say the
last word with a pulse of light*
The man is no longer doubled over and
Observable from the window
As a result of his fifty-eight years
the equation of his life
All comes to zero
Whilst the mocking ticking and tocking
Of an old clock knocking minutes like
Nails into the wall—
He disappeared in a puff of smoke,
The ice in his glass melted and the woman picked it up,
Drinking it in a single gulp, the glass comes down as if
Magnetically drawn to the floor, the floor,
Where she lies silently and stretches her body
To get some release, she rubs her face against
The carpet, nothing matters except the next second,
Eyes, behind a blink or two, dart to another part of the empty room
She couldn’t think any further ahead than a second at all
And the zodiac crashed open
the ram sent stars flying
the crab snipped the string that suspended the stars
mars took some flak
and finally the sun was burst
by the horned goat
and aquarius held it
like the final fluid sphere
Stars, burning across the sky like the striking of a match
Those wishing on shooting stars
couldn’t decide what they wanted
many of them flying as there were
As well-known monsters
Weighed down by human hope,
clear out our night sky,
Leaving not a freckle to observe
Telescopes now point into bedroom windows
Shadows portray a sort of life,
Shadow puppets depict death through
Tragedy and lapses in timekeeping and
Obsessions with vanity
Life spends some empty second
Inside your lungs,
Continues on it’s way
To resuscitate a slowly fading knife attack victim
Or shake the hand of a minute,
Time is ticking laboriously by
The light, motherless and lost,
Spat out at as the sun was burst,
It looks up to see
the unveiling of the universe,
Finally,
the oyster swallowed the sea.
—I didn’t want to be a poet by any means. After what happened working on the lifeboats I couldn’t go near the sea, so in a way I chose which parts of it I wanted and wrote about them. It terrifies me and fascinates me at the same time. I fully believe I will return to it only as ash...
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
He stood on the "Endless Bridge" in Guthrie Theater,
And looked onward at the old abandon mill district of Minneapolis.
The crescent moon ascended to the glimmer of the city lights
As the nature of the wind pulled his hair back to shed his hidden soul.
The Mississippi River clash against the pavements of the dam,
And the moist from the river felt through the air on the pours of the skin.
Neon lights of the 35W reminded the contemporary architect of modern city,
But the old mill district had it's ever so present among the modern buildings.
In that silence she walked down the aisle from the theater entry onto the balcony,
The silent graceful walk even in heels like a prey of the jungle,
There she stood next to him to reach her arm around his.
He glanced onto her face matching his eyes to her's,
And she pulled the most warm honest smile of innocence.
Upon his gaze upon her dark glistened navy blue dress,
With golden neckless he gave her as their anniversary gift,
And pearl earring illuminated the moon light of nightly beauty.
"You look majestic," barely able to mutter as he faced her side by side,
And his back against the solid balcony wall.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Tripping over his feet like so many shoelaces he danced clumsily
Calloused hands holding loosely onto the featherweight of my neglected body
Breath
alcohol tainted and stained with years of nicotine inhalation
raises goose flesh on the whole of my being
My vision is doubling
the dogeared books decorating the walls of his room
pristine white candles glowing hot and soft on the altar
wine glasses silently radiating with a deep maroon
He spins me slowly round
I imagine I look like the ceramic dancer
inside a music box
Inside a fantasy world all my own
My head is getting dizzy from the alcohol from the smokes from the movement
and I stumble
Everything round me slows to an unsure crawl as the world shifts horizontally
Hands grasp the air as my feet pinwheel
Flowing fabric floats away from my body
an angel falling
Mouth opens and a soft gasp is allowed
This happens within the seemingly unending seconds
between leaving the relative and drunken safety of his arms and
Cracking my skull upon the altar adorned in so much white flame
Everything stills and again
There is silence
I do not
hear his screams as my heartbeat matches that of a hymnal I used to sing in church and
I overflow with the memory
As my blood pools beautifully
Complimenting the darkness of the wine stained crystal
I imagine
The altar had been built for me
The corners of books folded to please my eye
The drinks the music the melancholy all exist for
My epilogue
My epitaph
My eternity
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC