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The remnants of a life: scattered papers and the last letter written in a dim, cold room where 

hope has faded. The final echo in an empty space. Image by Midjourney v6.

3. Tender Echoes in Ink - revised

“Non omnis moriar.”

– Horace

I am-

but who deciphers

the static in my marrow,

the flicker of a filament

spitting sparks

in the socket of my skull?

I am the vessel,

cracked and brimming,

where anguish sloshes,

tide against glass.

This world-

a crooked scale,

its fulcrum rusted,

its verdicts cold as coins

dropped in a well.

I tumble through

the hush of halls,

my pleas ricocheting

off marble, off memory,

off the backs of those

who never turn.

All I cherished-

ghosts in the fog,

fur and feather,

warmth and weight.

I write goodbyes

with knuckles white,

each syllable a shackle,

each phrase a pebble

dropped in the well of my chest.

For those I taught-

let your questions

crack the shell

of every easy answer.

Let hope be a howl,

let your laughter

shield you from the wolves.

For those I fed-

I’ve left the list,

the blanket,

the sunlit window.

Forgive me-

I have run out of doors.

I have begged,

bartered sleep,

mapped alleys,

counted sheep.

But the night keeps gnashing,

the dawn never breaks.

I am the last note

the violin makes

before the string snaps-

snap-

a hush,

a hush.

But I dream-

you, curled in a shaft of light,

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.