The Floor Between Fates

closed doors gleam still—
mirrors mocking the climb up,
buttons never blink,
a sky trapped in circuitry,
the soul mourns its own stillness.

//Captioned//

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Decay dons no dirge—
it dreams in dry syllables,
unnamed by dawn.

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She dusted
the frame.
Inside—
a face
betrayed
by time’s allegiance
to dust.

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She, a chapel of
swallowed echoes—
fractured in her own refrain.

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•Healing is not quiet•

Time is no balm—
it stammers in circles, trailing
those who name your sorrow
not to soothe but to stir it—
like monks who ring the bell
of grief to test its tone,
to see if it still sings.
They come,
not bearing light, but the
same cracked mirrors
in which you first mistook
yourself for ruin.
Healing, you thought, was exile
from pain— but no,
it is dwelling beside it
without kneeling.
The wound speaks not in silence
but in ash—and still,
you must learn to sit within the smoke
without choking on its shape.

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~Reliquary Of The Seen~

Heavens in his eyes
are revered reveries,
where she — unscripted — walks
the corridors of thought,
through muraled wind and
candle-quiet storms.
His gaze, an oracle’s loom,
threads her silence with
wings of old ink.
She speaks to him in leaf-breath
and dawn’s ash,
a prayer not for return—
but recognition.

seen, not summoned,
she walks
where light remembers.

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~Where The Lantern Forgot It's Light~

The floor remembers—
how she vanished mid-spin.
Not vanished: refracted.
She's a prism-thin in this
masquerade of fog and footsteps,
stitched in sighs of those
who watch but do not follow.
Each turn is an elegy.
Each silence—more fluent than her.

A cadence remains.
One ghost clings to the refrain—
in her own shadow.

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He waited.
She burned—
Pyre whispered forever’s lie.

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kindness
sutures the unseen—
grief mended in
gestures—
a torn world learns
to re-stitch breath.

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She, misfiled
within the library of hours...

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