You find you served its hand, of course.
So when at last you name the source,
And all the while it entered in.
A balm. A vow. A second skin.
You would have sworn was sent to you.
Then came as something almost true
It came as thirst. Then came as verse.
It was not sudden. That is worst.
Inside the places light forgot.
And there it breeds—in silk, in rot—
Then rocks it warmly back to sleep.
It names each unloved hour you keep,
It blesses every severed thing.
It kneels beside what might have been.
It slips inside. It shapes the dream.
It does not strike. It does not scream.
A hug with poisoned velvet wings.
This is the way it coils and clings,
Was how you kept the time, of course.
And all that mattered then, is force,
Haunting every truth you know.
A beautiful nightmare, a painful glow,
It steals the vision from your gaze.
It was never gone. It weeps. It stays.
A rhythm drowned by deaf resistance.
A horizon born, then lost to distance.
For darkness swallows up the light.
It lingers there, whate'er you try.
A hollow too deep to be believed.
Sunshine hidden, barely conceived.
Just something holy layed to die.
No warning bell. No shattered cry.
Stillness gathers through the street.
The whole world lurches at your feet.
A small rehearsal held for death.
Yet something blackens in the breath,
No breaking pulse. No visible harm.
No tear arrives. No wild alarm.
So soft you pray it went unsaid.
A gentle whisper: lay your head,
A hurtful truth, a loving lie.
It starts with a word beneath the sky,
