In the velvet shadow of the midnight hour, I watch the pendulum—
that iron tongue of time—slicing through the thick, oppressive
silence of my chamber. It swings with a rhythmic, soul-crushing certainty, a metronome for a heart that beats only in anticipation of its own cessation. Each deliberate arc is a silver blade harvesting the seconds of my existence, a swaying memento mori that whispers of the lime-white bone beneath the skin.
How effortlessly it mocks the feverish heat of my blood! It does not haste for my terror, nor does it linger for my prayers. It is the steady, oscillating breath of the abyss, dragging the hem of its shadow across the floorboards until the very air smells of ancient dust and damp earth. I am tethered to this moment, a prisoner of the Great Interval, watching that gleaming weight trace the inevitable geometry of the grave. With every vibration, the veil thins; with every shudder of the clockwork, the worms draw a fraction closer to their banquet. Swing, then, thou cold and heavy witness—for in thy tireless motion, I see the only truth that remains: that we are but ghosts in a clockwork cage, waiting for the gears to seize.
I like the concept of this. We are the ghost in this life.
Thank you, Fia. The world is a cage and, we the ghost. It’s sort of unsettling, isn’t it?
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.