finite spire
Where am I—
the end or the beginning?
Why did my whispers to fate fail,
like a bird that missed the breeze.
I looked into the sky
as a bird folded its wings mid-flight—
perhaps it couldn’t bear
the weight of unsaid storms.
The tree stood empty,
a song without its melody.
Beautiful as sunrise
brushing the sea with gold,
ugly as a storm
that forgets to rain.
I wish I could borrow light
the way the moon leans on the sun,
leave even one living mark
on my empty canvas.
My canvas—
blank as an unwritten book,
yet loud with expectation,
a melody held together by silence.
Why does everyone hear the rhythm
and I don’t?
Did my pain lose its timing?
I wish I were a raindrop,
lost enough to belong
to the ocean.
The bird grows tired
of chasing the sky.
My heart outruns
what time allows.
Every limb feels loosened
by uncertainty.
Is any rhythm still playing?
Yes—
this is the first brushstroke.
I speak it aloud;
others murmur it
like a sky forgetting dawn.
Pure black—
dark as unseeing eyes.
I stare into the abyss,
the nothing, the end,
and still find a glow
gathering sparks.
You—
that was you.
Our white nights,
our celestial circling,
our whispered promises.
Why did you extinguish
those incandescences,
those quiet blazes?
Am I a song
caught inside silence?
I still want to believe
my eyes are blind—
and you are still
teaching me light.
glass fossil
bold shell
