▶️ I sit within the hollow, carved alone,
While tremors in my weary spirit wake.
For in the dark, the vivid ghosts collide—
Not spirits, but the images of fray—
A gorephobia, a rising, jagged tide
That turns the sunlight into shades of gray.
The world outside is cruel, a jagged blade,
And even in the stillness of my room,
The phantom stains of violence invade,
To weave their crimson patterns on the gloom.
I am a shadow, thinning at the seams,
My pulse a rhythm fading in the glass;
The faces in the silvered, aged dreams
Are ghosts of summers long since come to pass.
I fear the end, not death’s soft, final sleep,
But that the dark shall find me unobserved;
That silence is the promise I must keep,
With all the love I meant to have reserved.
Oh, to be held against the creeping cold,
To break this glass that keeps the world at bay,
And though I wither, brittle, gray, and old,
To feel a hand wipe all the stains away.
But twilight deepens, casting long, lean bars,
And I am tethered to this lonely chair;
While distant heavens hide their indifferent stars,
And leave me gasping in the empty air.
Yet somewhere in the marrow, still, a spark—
A hunger for a voice, a touch, a sign;
To find a bridge across this heavy dark,
And press a trembling, human palm to mine.
The clock ticks on, a heartbeat in the wall,
As dusk descends to crown the quiet strife;
I wait, a singular, soft, final call,
To light the fading edges of my life.
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