I knew, since the start
True ones don't let you down.
I must praise your toxic art-
Of tricking and blinding what is real.
It almost made me accept the deal,
Until I found myself healed.

And see,
That I meant so much more
Than spending my whole life under your toxic core.
I’m glad that the second I heard the taxi horn-
I got in and got home.
Cried, cooked, and realized:
You're not worth a tear; you're worth nothing.
It was then that I grasped-
It was my pure intentions that made you everything.

I already knew since the start:
The true one for me wouldn’t let me down.
Moral of the story?
Good riddance and good lesson.
You're at the age where you should have a son,
And it's high time I took my light back
And became my own hero
When I cannot see the sun.

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.

There’s a film that covers these eyes,
I swear they’re for someone else, exempt.
What passes through them flips in real time.
I’m seeing the world, but not as it’s meant.

I squint tightly and then I try to focus,
But when I look, things are foreign and bleak.
Reality delays, shifting right out the gate—
Most likely to no one else living but me.

My hands feel elastic, they extend too far,
Like they belonged to someone that flew.
I only know I exist by the scars—
As I constantly move but never move.

I talk, but my voice feels mechanic,
Like chewing tinfoil by planned mistake.
Each word I say is a rented sound,
A dial tone that belongs to my ache.

The people pass like afterglow—
They laugh like old, distorted cassettes,
The ones that sound like a broken record
Stuck on the song I need to forget.

I wear my face like costume paint—
A cracked veneer. No, I can't explain.
Its smiles are crooked; they fold and break,
Like it only exists for perception’s sake.

The mirror, it flinches when I start to pace.
My reflection’s hand, not clenched like my fist—
It seems we’re confused with our actual space,
Two ghosts unsure that exist.

The mirror, it paces. Making me flinch.
It seems we’re confused as to who owns the space,
My reflection’s hand is clenched but not mine.
Two ghosts unsure why we're sharing a face.

I etched your name into the constellations
I branded the night sky with your silent glow
Every minute burned me like stars burning traces
But it was worth it and I knew the sky was yours to hold.

Above forgotten graves, there are stone monuments.
The empty silence that has now become the paradigm
Vibrating quietly, they're becoming truly cosmic.
Screaming stars trapped in the sore throat of time

I sewed your shape into the fabric of my lasting ache
You crystallized into the patterns of my stale grief.
Between seconds memories don't seem to ever age
They hum the sad hymns within the sorrow of our dreams.

I once believed that pain would bring my longing rebirth
And mold the scattered ash of all the things that left me numb
But not every storm reshapes the sky or realigns the earth
Some cyclone with the dreams of all we never could become

Not every void is meant for our emotions or our thoughts
But write the cosmic order underneath the feet of trust.
Remind me of the places I've searched for forgotten gods
And the meaning in their stillness for the meaning in the rust.

Seeking answers from divinity frozen within the rot
But I found only reflections of a voice lost from its mold
Just a velvet shadowed shrine mingled into clots.
Caught between the moments when we fought to feel whole

Somewhere lost in space and you're the only one left
Remember the nameless deities we let remain unsaid
Intersecting years with all the gods that we invented
Who wait in muffled synapses where memory is met

And whisper in the cracks of our unraveling existence
Your echoes never sleep, my name's never been written out.
I'm from a deeper silence that still feeds the kinetic
Remembered only by tongues that never spoke my name aloud

We are held by hands that sculpted meaning into being
With everything we never had the courage to become
I speak not to the earth but to the silence that's beneath it
Scriptures burn with dying light. The pulse that beats the drum

Time itself cracks and fractures in this violent dream
As it trembles whispering the truth that morphs too fast
Left between our promise I feel fractures in the beams
Louder than all words pushed through the cries or all the laughs

The end begins to loop and spirals into treacherous gallows
Never quite taking form pretending to be brighter
My soul unravels as it begins chasing your shadow
I believe the search for meaning only binds us tighter

Each thread another layer of truth or just a wrought hope.
Entangled in the quantum thread that tightens as it loosens
To find what's real we search the silence in methods to cope.
To pull the clarity from what they call our failed illusions.