The metronome of morning ticks against a hollow chest. Another hour I must borrow just to pass the test. I trace the phantom outlines of the hands I pushed away, A gallery of portraits that refused to stay. The mirror shows a stranger built of cinder and of doubt, Whose only constant wisdom is to never figure out. This silence isn't peaceful; it's the space where prayers have died. Just the echo of a whisper from a place I used to hide. And the ledger of my life is scrawled in charcoal black, Every turn I should have taken, every promise I took back. Now the air is getting thinner, and the light begins to fade... I pay the interest on the choices that I made. Oh!) I am the ghost they left behind in rooms of rusted grace. A solitary sculpture that time would not embrace. I searched for God in thunder, found only empty sky, Just a broken, burning purpose—the will to simply try. They loved the dream they saw in me, and I was just the flaw, Now the consequence of living is the hardest, coldest law: To drag this weary vessel through the ruins of the day, With nothing left to fight for, but the need to stay! The city is a canvas, but the colors are too bright. They all move with direction, lost in their intended light. But I walk against the current, a shadow in the gold, The same sad story playing, growing infinitely old. There was a name I carved in stone, beneath a weeping tree, I thought that kind of anchor meant the world belonged to me. But every chance I offered, every bridge I tried to mend, Was met with silent verdict: “This is not where we extend.” And the clock hands slice the hours, like a razor on the soul, Just fragments of the future I can never make quite whole. Now the air is getting thinner, and the light begins to fade... I pay the interest on the choices that I made. Oh!) I am the ghost they left behind in rooms of rusted grace. A solitary sculpture that time would not embrace. I searched for God in thunder, found only empty sky, Just a broken, burning purpose—the will to simply try. They loved the dream they saw in me, and I was just the flaw, Now the consequence of living is the hardest, coldest law: To drag this weary vessel through the ruins of the day, With nothing left to fight for, but the need to stay! C\sharp minor is the color of the final, vacant door. If there’s a peace beyond this, I am not allowed to soar. I am chained to being... not to feeling or to faith... Just the miserable, cold mechanics of the final, drawn-out wraith... The memory of their faces is the only church I know. And my penance is survival, here, below... With nothing... Nothing left... But the need... to... (Silence)
