I sip from the chalice void of name, ‎Where echoes drip like a waxen flame. ‎The dusk devours what dawn forgets, ‎And time folds in on its regrets. ‎ ‎My breath, a hymn of formless ache, ‎Distorts the seams no light could break. ‎Thoughts bloom like bruises, soft and slow, ‎In gardens where no light may grow. ‎ ‎Tongue-tied in truths the stars conceal, ‎I rot in things I cannot feel. ‎A self unspoken, half-unborn, ‎Wears silence like a crown of thorn. ‎ ‎So let me drown in sacred blur, ‎Where grief and dream together stir. ‎Not lost—just hidden, out of phase, ‎Between the pulse of passing days. ‎