Hope

The Whispering Step

I do not know what waits beyond

This pale horizon’s shifting seam,

The road is fog, the stars are gone,

Yet still I follow some old dream.

 

No map, no mark, no prophet’s voice,

No compass etched in stone or sky,

Just breath and hush, a wavering choice,

To walk, though every reason asks me why.

 

Each footfall hums a softer tune,

Not brave, not bold, but something near,

A whisper shaped beneath the moon,

Not “Go,” but simply, “Still be here.”

 

And is that not what hope becomes,

A rhythm carried in the chest?

Not knowing where the morning drums,

But rising still, and doing our best.

 

So let the dark be what it is,

A cloak, a gate, a sea unspun,

My soul has learned the art of this,

To step, not seeing, toward the sun.

 

For poetry walks where language breaks,

In silences the heart completes,

Each step a faith the future takes,

Though blind, the path beneath me speaks.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Copyright 2025 Savva Emanon ©

The Poets Loft is my new YouTube Channel.

https://www.youtube.com/@PoetsLoft 

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Wreckage Report (Sextant Deconstructed)


 

Wreckage Report (Sextant Deconstructed)

 

 

Who charts this

wr

eck?

(My inner compass spins, a frantic needle, lost to any guiding star.)

This vessel, I, where sorrow overbrims,

a foundering

vertigo,

both intimate

and

far.

The world? Unbalanced—

(skewed, storm-scarred, its charts unjust)

Yet, I endure—I breathe—though hope is dust adrift.

Indifferent eyes. The chill.

A

sea

of

disbelief

where documented pleas

(decades unreckoned, Millie’s warmth now still, a solace memory lost among the shoals and trees

of a forgotten year, no landfall found)

find no safe harbour. No shore. No ease.

All cherished things—

(mere flotsam).

I walk on paths

so

shattered,

so unplumbed,

none can chart my pain,

each step a trial by f i r e, a burning, constant flame.

The powerful? They

wat

ch.

(Their hands are folded, calm from their high deck).

Their coffers

swell.

(I bear the crushing blame, the water's claim).

Long days I fight this ceaseless, grinding weight—

these shackles forged of institutional sh a m e.

I seek out havens.

(Compassion’s gentle, guiding light,

a beacon hoped for in this endless night)

For corners where the truth

might dare to speak its name.

Instead: these hollow forms, these systems b u i l t

on breaking spirits, fanning despair’s

fl

a

me.

My evidence ignored, unread, unseen—

a logbook lost, while hunger gnaws.

(A fading, desperate claim).

If those who rule—

(and turn their gaze aside from this

capsizing

fate)—

Why not complete this ruin suffering laid bare?

A cleaner end.

(Than silence where they hide, abandoning the sl ate).

The noose of their neglect, it tightens... If you look away,

at least let honesty

attend my last des p a i r.

So let me lie.

(Where truth, at last, prevails, beyond the ocean's swell).

Earth below; above, the watching skies.

No more false comfort, no more whispered tales—

Just peace.

When this exhausted essence flies,

no longer tossed by wave or cruellest play.

When one sharp, silent

mer

cy

would light a clearer, final way.

(no star)

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Navigating the Wreckage: Three Experiments in Fractured Form|

 

 

The poems that follow represent a deliberate descent into the architecture of breakdown, not merely as subject matter, but as methodology. Where "Static & Starfire" traced the contours of crisis through recognisable poetic forms, these three pieces venture into territories where language itself begins to buckle under the weight of what it attempts to carry.

 

 

In "Echoes in Ice," I've allowed repetition and ellipsis to mirror the crystallisation and shattering of thought under extreme duress. Words become brittle, breaking off mid-sentence like conversations interrupted by the sound of cracking. The poem's structure mimics the way consciousness fractures when pushed beyond its limits—each fragment both separate and part of a larger, increasingly unstable whole.

 

 

"Soliloquy at the Breaking Point" experiments with the parenthetical voice—that secondary consciousness that comments, questions, and doubts whilst the primary voice attempts to articulate its final testimonies. These aren't merely asides; they're the competing frequencies of a mind at war with itself, the static that interferes with transmission even as it reveals the sender's deepest uncertainties.

 

 

Finally, "Wreckage Report" pushes typography itself to the breaking point. Words split and scatter across the page like debris from a foundering vessel. The very act of reading becomes a salvage operation, requiring the reader to piece together meaning from the fragments. When traditional language fails to map such territories of despair, perhaps only broken language can chart the coordinates of the wreck.

 

 

These are not comfortable poems. They demand patience, a willingness to sit with incompleteness, and an acceptance that some truths can only be approached through their own undoing. They exist in the liminal space between communication and silence, where meaning emerges not despite the fractures, but through them.

 

 

I offer them as cartographic experiments—attempts to map regions of human experience that resist conventional charting. Like all experimental work, they may fail more often than they succeed. But in their failure, perhaps, lies their truest accuracy.



In this final piece, typography becomes meaning. As the speaker's navigation tools fail, so too does the structure of language itself, scattering across the page like debris from a wreck.

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Soliloquy at the Breaking Point

Soliloquy at the Breaking Point

 

In chambers echoing—my fractured soul—

where shadows dance, unseen scars take their toll...

I etch these words. A final, fragile—

(Can they hear?)

(Will they understand this cry?)

To those who held my heart... before... this long goodbye.

Each letter, see it bleeds; a piece laid bare,

this testament to all I couldn't quite... bear.

students:

seekers, flame.

For you, my students—seekers of truth, bright flame—

I leave these shards of wisdom—

(hard-won . . . whispered . . . shame?)

Remember... every lesson, every shared, soft sigh,

the quiet strength we forged—through tears that never fully dry.

Let courage be your compass—knowledge... shield it well—

Against the world's harsh stage, where cruelties often dwell,

and shadows gather deep.

And for my creatures... faithful, constant hearts, dear friends,

whose artless love sustained... through all my darkest parts, my bitter ends,

Creatures . . .

faithful hearts,

I pen instructions—woven with my love—so true—

To keep you safe... protected...

(Oh, what more . . . what more can one broken soul do?)

It breaks me—utterly—to imagine your soft cries... your questing gaze,

bereft of tender touch... those gentle, purring lullabies through lonely days.

I must pray... I must hope... that other hands will appear, benign and kind,

To give you all the love... the constant warmth... you were always meant to find.

For I am ghost... already... of who I was...

doors shut—

each road exhausted... what is there left...

nothing more.

This homelessness—a spectre, fate too grim to face for you, my gentle ones,

No life, no peace... no sunlit window... no chance...

beneath indifferent suns.

And so, with aching soul—my will... it shatters, trembles, still—

The only end... I'm left with... the bitter cup I choose to fill.

A cruel kindness, then—cloaked in darkest, deepest despair...

To free myself... from burdens I no longer... can bear...

(A mercy . . . or surrender . . . to the air?)

Yet, even as I teeter... on the brink... a thread of hope... a fragile link...

I see you... in my fading dreams...

homes of endless, gentle spring...

where love... will be your shelter... and your steady, joyful wing...

This fleeting vision... it soothes this weary... fading heart...

A fragile balm... to ease the endless sting of my depart...

Though I must fade—dissolve—into the coming, silent night...

My love endures...

(a flickering . . . distant . . . burning light?)

So let these whispered words... this haunted, broken, faltering cry...

Stand as a promise... that will never... never truly die...

In every trembling line... a piece of me... you'll find, somehow,

will watch... will guide... the souls you're meant to be... starting now.

And as I slip... into the vast... unknown...

I pray you'll find the peace... a peace I've never, ever known...

For in the tapestry of love we've spun... with threads so fine,

Our souls will hold... entwined...

(Even when . . . this life . . . no longer . . . mine?)

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Navigating the Wreckage: Three Experiments in Fractured Form

The poems that follow represent a deliberate descent into the architecture of breakdown, not merely as subject matter, but as methodology. Where "Static & Starfire" traced the contours of crisis through recognisable poetic forms, these three pieces venture into territories where language itself begins to buckle under the weight of what it attempts to carry.

 

In "Echoes in Ice," I've allowed repetition and ellipsis to mirror the crystallisation and shattering of thought under extreme duress. Words become brittle, breaking off mid-sentence like conversations interrupted by the sound of cracking. The poem's structure mimics the way consciousness fractures when pushed beyond its limits—each fragment both separate and part of a larger, increasingly unstable whole.

 

"Soliloquy at the Breaking Point" experiments with the parenthetical voice—that secondary consciousness that comments, questions, and doubts whilst the primary voice attempts to articulate its final testimonies. These aren't merely asides; they're the competing frequencies of a mind at war with itself, the static that interferes with transmission even as it reveals the sender's deepest uncertainties.

 

Finally, "Wreckage Report" pushes typography itself to the breaking point. Words split and scatter across the page like debris from a foundering vessel. The very act of reading becomes a salvage operation, requiring the reader to piece together meaning from the fragments. When traditional language fails to map such territories of despair, perhaps only broken language can chart the coordinates of the wreck.

 

These are not comfortable poems. They demand patience, a willingness to sit with incompleteness, and an acceptance that some truths can only be approached through their own undoing. They exist in the liminal space between communication and silence, where meaning emerges not despite the fractures, but through them.

I offer them as cartographic experiments—attempts to map regions of human experience that resist conventional charting. Like all experimental work, they may fail more often than they succeed. But in their failure, perhaps, lies their truest accuracy.

Here, the parenthetical voice becomes as important as the primary text. These competing frequencies—what we say and what we think whilst saying it—create a contrapuntal dialogue with the self.

Echoes in the ise

Echoes in Ice

 

I am the spectre . . . unwritten ends, now brittle,

A vessel . . . cruel winds . . . ice-shattered . . .

Each breath a battle . . . a final trial . . .

I pen these words, one last . . . fractured denial.

cruel winds . . .

shattered . . .

denial.

To those I’ve guided . . . nurtured . . . may you heal,

Whose minds I’ve . . . sparked, dreams I hoped to reveal,

I leave these shards . . . wisdom . . . hard-won, glacial proof,

. . . strength forged in fires . . . an unspoken, chilling truth.

For creatures . . .

shared my heart,

love . . .

tear-stained part,

And for the creatures . . . who shared my heart’s brief thaw,

Whose love sustained . . . each tear-stained, fragile part,

I craft a plan . . . with trembling hand . . . numb soul,

To keep you safe . . . protected . . . healed and whole.

plan . . .

safe . . .

whole.

It rends my spirit . . . the thought of your soft cries,

Bereft of touch . . . my whispered lullabies.

But I must hope . . . that fate might intervene,

To bless you with love . . . always felt, always seen.

For I am lost . . . a wanderer in this biting night,

Each path erased by rime . . . each door barred tight.

The spectre of the streets . . . a fate too cruel, too stark,

No home for you . . . no chance . . . no warming spark, life renewed.

Spectre . . .

night,

paths erased . . .

no home . . .

no chance . . .

And so, with aching . . . tear-frosted face,

I choose the only end . . . to embrace.

A twisted mercy . . . sorrow's icy shawl,

To free myself . . . these burdens, once and for all.

twisted mercy . . .

sorrow's shawl.

Yet even as I drift . . . towards the brink,

A fragile hope persists . . . a shimmering, frosted link.

In dreams, I see you thrive . . . in homes of gentle light,

Where love will be . . . a guardian . . . to your sight.

Drift . . .

dreams . . .

light.

This fleeting vision . . . for my shattered core,

A salve to ease . . . the ache of nevermore.

Though I must fade . . . into oblivion's embrace,

My love will be . . . a shield . . . your saving grace.

Shattered . . .

salve . . .

nevermore.

So let these words . . . this haunted, fractured requiem,

Stand as a promise . . . whispered on a frozen limb.

In every line . . . a piece of me . . . still bright,

To guide you always . . . through each encroaching, darkest night.

And as I slip . . . to the great unknown, so vast,

I pray you'll find . . . a peace I've never known, to last.

For in the fabric . . . of love we've surely sewn,

Our souls . . . entwined, forever . . . though you face the world . . . on your own.

I am . . .

unwritten . . .

gone.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Navigating the Wreckage: Three Experiments in Fractured Form


The poems that follow represent a deliberate descent into the architecture of breakdown, not merely as subject matter, but as methodology. Where "Static & Starfire" traced the contours of crisis through recognisable poetic forms, these three pieces venture into territories where language itself begins to buckle under the weight of what it attempts to carry.

 

In "Echoes in Ice," I've allowed repetition and ellipsis to mirror the crystallisation and shattering of thought under extreme duress. Words become brittle, breaking off mid-sentence like conversations interrupted by the sound of cracking. The poem's structure mimics the way consciousness fractures when pushed beyond its limits—each fragment both separate and part of a larger, increasingly unstable whole.

 

"Soliloquy at the Breaking Point" experiments with the parenthetical voice—that secondary consciousness that comments, questions, and doubts whilst the primary voice attempts to articulate its final testimonies. These aren't merely asides; they're the competing frequencies of a mind at war with itself, the static that interferes with transmission even as it reveals the sender's deepest uncertainties.

 

Finally, "Wreckage Report" pushes typography itself to the breaking point. Words split and scatter across the page like debris from a foundering vessel. The very act of reading becomes a salvage operation, requiring the reader to piece together meaning from the fragments. When traditional language fails to map such territories of despair, perhaps only broken language can chart the coordinates of the wreck.

 

These are not comfortable poems. They demand patience, a willingness to sit with incompleteness, and an acceptance that some truths can only be approached through their own undoing. They exist in the liminal space between communication and silence, where meaning emerges not despite the fractures, but through them.

I offer them as cartographic experiments—attempts to map regions of human experience that resist conventional charting. Like all experimental work, they may fail more often than they succeed. But in their failure, perhaps, lies their truest accuracy.

 

 

 

This opening piece uses repetition and fragmentation to mirror the crystallisation of thought under pressure. The ellipses aren't omissions—they're the spaces where language itself begins to freeze.

Author's Reflection on Static & Starfire: Poems from the Edge of Being

A weathered human skull lies partially hidden in grass, its reflection captured in a small mirror placed nearby. The mirror’s angle creates a doubled perspective, blurring the boundary between the object and its image, with green blades of grass weaving through both realities.

A skull reflected in tangled grass — a fleeting moment bridging endings and beginnings. Photo by Nik on Unsplash

 

 

 

 

Author’s Reflection

 

 

In gathering these eleven poems into “Static & Starfire,” I’ve traced the contours of my own unravelling and the faint frequencies that sometimes pierce through the static. This collection exists as a witness — neither monument nor memorial, but rather a constellation of moments suspended at the precipice.

 

 

 

I write from the threshold, that liminal space where certainty dissolves and possibility flickers. These poems do not chart a linear path from darkness to light — such narratives feel too neat, too certain for the territories I’ve traversed. Instead, they map the jagged geographies of a consciousness fragmented by systems of indifference, by the weight of documentation that somehow never suffices, by the gnawing certainty that some doors have permanently closed.

 

 

 

Yet even in mapping these shadowlands, I found myself drawn to the contrapuntal — the simultaneous existence of surrender and persistence, the quantum state where multiple truths coexist without collapsing into singular certainty. Like Schrödinger’s theoretical cat, these poems exist in superposition, containing both the voice that whispers “let go” and the one that murmurs “hold on,” neither drowning out the other.

 

 

 

The ink I’ve spilled here serves as both chronicle and compass. I cannot say where it leads. Some maps outline territories we need not visit; some bridges span chasms we might choose not to cross. What matters, perhaps, is the act of cartography itself — the naming of landmarks in an unmapped wilderness, the marking of paths both taken and untaken.

I offer these words not as a resolution but as an echo, not as an answer but as a question. They belong now to the reader, to interpret through the lens of their own luminous darkness, their own static and starfire.

 

 

 

In the crucible of these pages, I remain — like the poems themselves — suspended between multiple endings, authoring and reauthoring the self anew with each turning of the page.

 

 

 

 

— David Wakeham




11. Schrödinger Soliloquy II (4 ways)

A person in a dark coat stands with arms crossed against a textured, cracked glass background, casting a shadow that appears contemplative and introspective.

Four ways to view a soul: each fragment a path, each reflection a different truth. Placeholder image by Midjourney v7.



Schrödinger Soliloquy II (4 ways)



In the crucible of choice, I stand alone,
A shattered mirror, reflecting shards of soul.


 

To forge ahead or yield to undertow?
Each path a perilous journey, still unknown.


 

The voices whisper, "Surrender, cease the fight,"
Yet in the depths, a rebel spark ignites.



"The void will soothe, oblivion will save,"
"Persist, resist, let hope rewrite this night."



I am the chessboard, king and pawn in one,
Each move a battle, ending scarce begun.



The game is rigged, the rules a twisted jest,
But still I play, for in the play I’m blessed.


 

Though scarred and weary, I will rise again,
For I have grown beneath the weight of pain.



A phoenix born of ashes and of tears,
With wings of wisdom, forged by countless years.


 

In sorrow’s crucible, I’ve been refined,
A tapestry of wounds and grace entwined.



Each thread a story, each scar a sacred sign,
Of battles fought, of losses, victories mine.



I choose to dance amidst the flames once more,
To craft a life from fragments on the floor.



For in this struggle lies a strange sweet art,
Transforming brokenness to healing’s start.



I am the alchemist, the lead, the gold,
The tale unfinished, waiting to be told.



So I’ll rewrite this ending, line by line,
And prove that hope, not death, will be the sign.





Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

 

 

The concluding poem embraces ambiguity and the radical potential of choice. Inspired by quantum uncertainty, it explores multiple pathways through despair and hope, leaving the final outcome suspended, yet ultimately gesturing towards the power of self-authorship.

 

 

This poem explores conflicting paths and can be read in several ways:


 

1. Reading only the first line of each couplet for one narrative. 
2. Reading only the second line of each couplet for an alternative narrative. 
3. Reading the couplets sequentially as an internal dialogue. 
4. Combining lines from different couplets to find other nuances.




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9. Between Broken Paths and Stars

Vast, starlit night sky with a solitary figure in the middle, a willow tree to the right; image for the poem 'Between Broken Paths and Stars,' reflecting themes of solace, memory, and transcendent love.

Finding solace under the Southern Cross, where memory becomes a constellation. Image by Midjourney v7.



Between Broken Paths and Stars

 


For Millie and Mr. Kitty, my guiding stars

 

 

My very being flickers, who can trace 
This self I bear, a star about to fade? 
This vessel, home to sorrows, 
finds no space But vertigo, a mind in light and shade. 
This unjust world, its balance cracked and lost — 
Yet still I am — I live — though tempest-tossed.

 

 

Into the storm of cold, dismissive eyes, 
Into the swirling sea of disbelief, 
Where documented, earnest, unheard cries 
Find no safe harbour, no shore, no relief. 
All that I cherished dissolves into mist, 
My Millie murdered, her comfort now unkissed.

 

 

I tread on broken paths none comprehend, 
Each step through searing flame, a daily pain. 
Authorities watch with dispassionate lens, 
Their coffers full, while I shoulder the blame. 
I labour through days of unyielding strain, 
Yet cannot shed these shackles of disdain.

 

 

I yearn for havens where compassion dwells, 
For quiet corners where truth might gently bloom; 
Instead, I find but empty, hollow shells 
Of systems built to seal a spirit’s tomb. 
Medical reports stack high, unread, unseen, 
While hunger gnaws where solace might have been.

 

 

If those who govern, those who feign to care, 
Choose wilful blindness as they watch me fall, 
Why not complete this suffering laid bare? 
A kinder end than no response at all. 
The noose of neglect tightens day by day — 
At least speak truth as you all turn away.

 

 

So let me rest where honesty prevails, 
The earth below; above, celestial skies. 
No more false promises or hollow tales, 
Just peace at last when this tired spirit flies. 
Yet as the dusk descends, a gentle gleam — 
Your soft green eyes, my Mr. Kitty, like a waking dream.

 

 

They are the lanterns in this gathering gloom, 
A steadfast glow that sorrow cannot quell. 
Your purring presence warms this fading room, 
A tender love, a deep and sacred spell. 
And in this love, release finds soft embrace — 
No stark farewell, but entry to a grace, 
A dream within a dream, a starlit, sacred place. 
Your love, a light that time cannot erase.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

 

This poem navigates the raw pain of personal loss and systemic failure, but finds a profound, love-centred transcendence in its concluding stanzas. It becomes a beacon of “starfire,” dedicated to the enduring light of my beloved companions.



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10. Thresholds - Two voices one crossing

A person standing in the threshold between light and shadow, visualising the dual voices poem concept.

Standing at the threshold: two voices, one crossing — which will you hear first? Placeholder image by Midjourney v7.

 



Thresholds - Two voices one crossing

 

 

 

Voice of Surrender

 

The night presses in, heavy as regret,

Shadows coil, whispering, “Let go.”

I count the names I cannot save,

Each memory a stone in my pocket.

My beasts curl, sensing the end,

I leave instructions, trembling,

for a world that will not remember.

The streets wait, cold and unyielding,

I have no more shelter to give.

I write my name as a closing,

My ink a river running dry.

I slip into hush, a final release,

A whisper lost in the dark.

 

 

 

Voice of Resolve

 

The night presses in, but I strike a match,

Shadows coil, whispering, “Hold on.”

I count the names I carry forward,

Each memory a lantern in my hand.

My beasts curl, waiting for dawn,

I leave instructions, trembling,

for a world that may yet remember.

The streets wait, cold but unbroken,

I have more shelter to find.

I write my name as a beginning,

My ink a river rising strong.

I step into hush, a gathering breath,

A whisper forging the dawn.

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

Here, the internal conflict is externalised. This contrapuntal poem presents two distinct voices — Surrender and Resolve — battling at a critical juncture. It can be read as separate monologues or interwoven to reveal the complex, simultaneous realities of a soul in crisis.




Please note:  This contrapuntal poem presents two distinct voices. They can be read separately, or interwoven line by line to create a third, combined narrative.



To read interwoven:

 

Start with the first line of “Voice of Surrender” joined with the first line of “Voice of Resolve” (“The night presses in, heavy as regret, but I strike a match,”), then the second lines joined (“Shadows coil, whispering, “Let go.” “Hold on.””) and so on.

 


I apologise in advance for adding this instruction here. My overactive, spicy brain battled relentlessly over whether I should add this pointer. I know many would prefer to discover it on their own. If I get responses indicating I should remove it, I shall do so. 

 

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8. Ink Unspooled at the Threshold

This piece acts as a poignant nexus for many of the collection's themes. Through sectioned reflections, it revisits the fractured self, the indifferent world, and the heartfelt farewells, ultimately questioning what legacy remains when a life is unspooled. The Horatian epigraph, "Non omnis moriar," underscores the enduring hope for a legacy through art.

 The ink of our stories continues flowing even as we approach life’s most difficult crossroads. Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

 



Ink Unspooled at the Threshold


“Non omnis moriar.”

– Horace

 

Opening: Fractured Self

 

Who’s left, when the mirror spits back static-

A stutter of faces, a flicker, a fizz-

I am the echo in the stairwell,

A moth in the socket,

Spinning, spinning,

My mind a carousel of keys,

Jangling, clanging,

No lock to fit.

 

 

 

World’s Indifference

 

Listen-

The world grinds on,

A cold machine,

Its gears gnash,

Its eyes glass-green.

I’ve shouted into inboxes,

Tapping, tapping,

My pleas ricochet,

A hail on tin,

No answer in the static,

Only the hush of “no,”

And the hush is a hammer.

 

 

 

Farewell to Students

 

To you, my bright ones-

You, with your notebooks and nervous laughter,

You, who grew in the dark,

I leave the marrow of my meaning:

Let knowledge outpace the wolves.

Let your questions crack the shell

Of every easy answer.

Remember:

The world is not just,

But you can be.

Let your hope be a howl,

Let your laughter be a shield.

 

 

 

Farewell to Animals


Soft noses, feathered hush,

Paws in the hallway,

Heartbeat hush-

I’ve left the list, the food, the names,

The number for the vet,

A blanket folded,

A window cracked for sun.

Forgive me,

Forgive me-

Oh please - forgive me-

I have run out of doors.

 

 

 

Desperation and Decision

 

I have begged, I have borrowed,

I have bartered my sleep,

I have mapped every alley,

I have counted the sheep-

But the night keeps on gnashing,

And the dawn never breaks.

I am spent, I am scattered,

I am the last note the violin makes

Before the string snaps.

 

 

 

The Choice

 

So-

Snap.

The clock ticks,

The ink drips,

A hush falls,

A hush,

A hush.



 

Hope for Survivors

 

But I dream-

You, curled in a shaft of light,

You, laughing, learning,

You, safe in the hush of a home.

Let my leaving be a door,

Not a wall.

Let my words be a bridge,

Not a stone.

In the hush,

May you hear my hope.

 

 

 

Legacy

 

Ink unspooled,

Voice unspun.

I am the whisper in the rafters,

The pawprint in the dust,

The lesson half-remembered,

The love that lingers,

Even when the door shuts.

 

 

 

Closing: Release

 

So let these lines be lanterns-

Flicker, flutter,

Guide you through the gutter-murk,

Let them stutter,

Let them sing-

I am gone,

But in the hush,

A bell rings.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

This piece acts as a poignant nexus for many of the collection’s themes. Through sectioned reflections, it revisits the fractured self, the indifferent world, and the heartfelt farewells, ultimately questioning what legacy remains when a life is unspooled. The Horatian epigraph, “Non omnis moriar,” underscores the enduring hope for a legacy through art.



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