The café holds its silence, teacups in the twilight’s glow,
lengthy shadows gather as the sinking daylight goes.
The evening melts like newsprint, blurred and bleeding in the rain,
as I call you closer, life congeals in a fragile frame.
I hear your heartbeat pulsing through the bitter-bellied night,
silence coils like acid, void of surrender or light.
Above, the teacups rattle, spoons like tongues of bells that toll,
tablecloths lie frozen, canvas of the parting soul.
I knew if you drew nearer, blades would cut from throat to chin,
your jawline carved against me, silence searing deep within.
Our house becomes a photo—void of present, void of dawn,
no future inked inside it, nor today to lean upon.
Just a canvas made of flesh, stripped of breath and any sign,
beloved, wordless silence curdling into slow decline—
a painting made of flesh in well-loved solemn silence shone
the death-cry of the seeds that strike the stone, unlived, unsown
Weeping as he empties the chalice of his solitude,
the strayer blindly gallops through the twilight as it broods.
He casts a mask on jawbones, visage grim and starkly bare,
he learns from plaster, flesh, and dust the truths that linger there.
Through sugar-brown horizons, his hand splits evening’s brittle seam,
he barters fractured hours for the ash of broken gleam.
He buries heaven in soil, the Moon inside the setting Sun—
resurrection into ruin, damnation slowly comes undone.
And should they persuade him, “There lie horizons yet to be,”
silently he answers, “I wait—yet nothing comes to me.
For she burned all bridges, left their ashes to the air,
laying every living hope beneath horizons bare.
If brighter days still dawn, I turn away from light,
for I was always last—the shadow out of sight.
And so the end has come, the place I called my own:
the path I walked alone, the grave that I have sown.”