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