The world exhales a breath of fractured glass, where the long shadow of the night won’t yield a silent, gray, and desolate design revealed. It holds its ground—a monochrome morass. No gentle dawn lifts the persistent gloom, a sound of alien glee in this funereal clime. But slow decay that masks the march of time, a sparrow’s shriek—a cruel note in the tomb.
The sun ascends, a bloodstain, harsh and pale, it pulls the sheets from night’s unhealing veil a smear upon the indifferent, wintering ground, where fresh-wrought agonies are newly found. The furniture of pain, precisely set, looks cold and sharp beneath the morning ray. Stare back like strangers from a former day, the keys, the cup—things we cannot forget.
The house, a crypt where yesterday is kept, has sealed its doors against the waking sound. A deep, vast quiet settles where we slept, the hollow morning of a hope unfound. It is not mercy, this emerging light, revealing what was hidden by the night. But the slow lifting of the shade’s cold hand, the self that wakes, unbroken, yet unhealed, to stand.
Very creepy. This is good
Thank you, Fia.