Her nails bloom black as moons on trembling stems,
Whispering secrets to the midnight’s hems.
Anxiety, a serpent made of light,
Coils through the cracks of fractured night.

The Phoenix, laughing, eats itself anew,
Its ashes drift as stars in seas of blue.
No urn contains the echoes of its cries;
They bloom as cities in forgotten skies.
Upon the shelves, the objects start to hum—
A hollow ptyx becomes a beating drum.
The Master dives into the Styx’s glow,
To barter with the river’s undertow.

Through broken panes, the northern lights take root,
Growing unicorns of fire and fruit.
Their breath, a snowstorm made of molten clocks,
Consumes the void with gilded paradox.
The glass dissolves; the room becomes a field,
Where time unravels and the stars are sealed.

She floats, a mirror melting into air,
Her edges bleed with colors sharp and rare.
A septet of her faces sings in waves,
Their voices shape the rhythms of her graves.
Yet every note unfurls a phantom wing—
A song that only burning angels sing.

Oh, fleeting ghost of dreams and shadowed hue,
Your face dissolves into a different you.
For here, where time and space collapse in kind,
The soul unthreads the labyrinth of mind.

:: 12.28.2024 ::