I'm sorry again,
because they think we've arrived.
They think we've settled.
They think we've survived.
But inside-
there is nothing.
No joy.
No flame.
Only the hollow echo
of a name I can't reclaim.
We killed ourselves to get here-
one shadow, then another,
and another,
and another still.
We carved our own coffins,
buried our will,
just to keep climbing the cold, cruel hill.
Now the dream is dust.
The promise, gone.
A faded verse from a forgotten song.
I don't remember its face.
I don't remember its sound.
Only that it is lost,
and will not be found.
The wind whips wild through my ears,
scattering leaves like wasted years.
And all I hear-
is hollow air.
A lullaby for the unaware.
I'm not afraid of the night's deep stare,
but a colder fear coils there-
that I will lose myself entire,
that the dreamer's corpse will never rise,
that the fire will forget how to be fire.
The end feels near,
and the near feels far-
like chasing a ghost
through a dying star.
So hear me, Azrael-
archangel of ash and steel-
come carve me from this cage of bone,
breathe war into my weary stone.
Break the chains,
bend the bars,
and raise me like a ruin reborn
to raze the stars.
YOU ARE READING
Rubynk Collection
PoetryA treasury of poems bled in raw ink and truth, where each line is a cry, a prayer, or a shard of reality etched deep into the soul's canvas.
