gritty halo
He came to me in the quiet hours,
When shadows stretch like starving flowers.
His eggshell hand, outstretched, was pale, but kind,
A touch that tethered heart to mind.
At first, he offered me gifts,
Platters crowned with opulent nothing.
“Try this,” his gaze seemed to plead,
And though my fingers touched the emptiness,
I swore I felt satiation bloom.
He poured crystal goblets with air,
Yet the taste lingered, sweet and thin.
How delicate he seemed,
His presence was a symphony of restraint.
I mirrored him, thinking it devotion,
A lover’s reverence for his muse.
I turned from feasts to follow his quiet path,
Drinking only the silence between his words.
“You’re fine without,” his voice was low,
“You’ve always craved a lighter glow.”
His eyes became a mirror, coaxing my stare,
Unveiling flaws that weren’t there.
He led me to the longest table,
A feast of dreams, no chair, no label.
Before me, courses gleamed, surreal,
Yet vanished when I tried to feel.
The room grew narrow as we spun,
A dance begun, yet never done.
He hummed a tune, both soft and bleak,
It hollowed marrow, left me weak.
The wine he poured, a rancid taste,
Each sip dissolved to bitter waste.
His laughter lingered, sharp, refined,
It etched a hunger in my mind.
I followed him, as shadows do,
Through the corridors he led me that I never knew.
His voice became my daily prayer,
Each echo stripped me, piece by layer.
And when I faltered, when I swayed,
He pressed his hands where hunger stayed.
“Don’t stumble now; you’re nearly there,”
His crusted lips curved cruelly, yet aware.
The plates stayed empty, the room grew small,
Until there was no feast at all.
And still, he smiled, his grip like stone,
“I’ll leave,” I said—but I was alone.
Now nights are heavy, sleep unsure,
His ghost still remains like a lure.
And though I seek for him, or try, or plead,
The taste dissolves; he plants the seed.
cold yarrow
mint birch