He walked out on himself,
Left his book half-finished,
Buried deep within his shelf,
His skin burnt down to thinnest.
The pen was always his escape,
Then was it the pen, the paper or the reader
That made him forsake his escape?
The creator inked through its remaining life,
The vessel consoled the words under all eyes,
The receiver breathed meaning into the words,
Then who was it that discerns?
But...
What was his story...?
Was he reciting it...?
Or was it reciting him...?
Is he returning for his glory...?

He chased the sun, yet cursed the night,
Not knowing darkness held the light.
A single step and a moment’s choice,
Echoed loud in regret’s own voice.

We knew not all was ever bright,
But time had made the flaws feel right.
Now loss has carved its hollow space,
A whispered name, an empty place.
A home lost through ignored time,
And a shadow found under absence of light.

And if fate dares to mend the past,
It won’t be whole—unless it lasts.