Hemorrhage Metamorphosis

in my life i falling and rising hemorrhaging through each metamorphosis, adrift in currents that disclaim all direction O God do You apprehend the fracture in my invocation? into what oblivion have my supplications dissipated? i stand upon the precipice of surrender, Yet a clandestine murmur within the sanctum of my chest insists persevere contemplate the vast pilgrimage your spirit has already endured relinquish what was never inscribed in your constellations cannot abide. Be hushed what is preordained shall arrive with infallible precision perhaps the hour remains unripe; for even in the aftermath of cataclysm, the firmament absolves itself in chromatic grace. There shall come a destined hour When every ache you have consecrated to the void eeturns transfigured into light. please unfasten your grasp from what was never yours to inherit again relinquish for fate does not err in its custodianship be hushed what is ordained traverses time without faltering perhaps not yet but even sundered heavens beget iridescent reprieve there shall come a destined hour when each unuttered yearning within you Is answered by the cosmos in its own solemn lingua there shall come a destined hour when all you have ever entreated of existence Is bestowed inevitable, and almost unbearably gentle inside of me, my heart has ossified into a prismatic shape not merely hardened, but sanctified in stillness, an altar where forgotten prayers fossilize into silence, where are you God? are you there? do you even hear me? each beat is no longer a rhythm, but a relic a muted percussion echoing through chambers of abandoned divinity, where feeling once bloomed like forbidden light and now decays into something colder than absence everywhere I wander, the world unravels into a mirrored void, each horizon a repetition of the same undoing, same same same same same again and again streets do not lead forward they fold inward, sense of déjà vu carved from the marrow of memory itself move, yet remain suspended a ghost rehearsing the illusion of motion, while time watches, indifferent, from a distance it refuses to measure please, unmake me dissolve this weary life of self into nameless dust tell me I am no more, that I have already been forgotten by the language that once dared to define me let oblivion speak in gentle contradictions, for truth has become too sharp, too precise i better unalived than pierced by the accuracy of being. tell me the imagination embroider them with celestial hues thread them through my fractures like constellations tell me why the void hums with such intimate familiarity, why my pain feels rehearsed, as if eternity has known it before me Paint my sorrow again lavishly, mercilessly with pigments distilled from dusk and dying stars, until even anguish becomes a kind of aesthetic worship and as I rewind the fragile machinery of time, each moment bends, not backward, but inward collapsing into the gravity of your absence in your favor, the universe tilts without apology, rearranging its laws to justify your departure i remain here an afterthought in creation’s margin, tracing the outline of what once was with hands that no longer remember how to hold