I wrote a poem:
Quiet Things
A voice calls from beneath the ruin
Come down, come down,
where the river moves without water,
where the sky breaks without thunder.
Step through the door that was never built.
Here, the walls are breathing. Here,
your own hands will show you the way.
Quiet Things
A voice calls from beneath the ruin
Come down, come down,
where the river moves without water,
where the sky breaks without thunder.
Step through the door that was never built.
Here, the walls are breathing. Here,
your own hands will show you the way.
Comments
patient, waiting. The hunger of quiet things,
the tremor in the marrow of the world.
You have seen it before, in the shudder
of a candle before it dies, in the way
your own breath misted on the glass,
only to vanish
unclaimed, undone.
You’ve been here before.
And when the sun sets
a smear of rust upon the sky
you will know the truth:
That the wind sings, but not for you.
That the hands you hold are not your own.
That something watches with hollow eyes,
and it does not blink
but you will not wither.