I brushed the dust from my own regard—
yet still, no pulse replied.
The glass refused my borrowed face,
its silence deep and wide.
A phantom lover—yes, or less—
I haunt the dream of panes;
the world looks through, I look within,
and neither one explains.
So keep your mercy in your throat
until the storm has fled.
We’ll cast our burdens skyward then—
and ride the wind instead.
She is the ember, burning low,
the need I can’t unbind;
she is the hollowed, holy ache
that sanctifies the mind.
Emptiness begets its twin—
a clean, unhuman glow.
Purity, divinity—
each one forgets to know.
The heavens echo vacancy,
their throne as bare as me;
a god of frost and absence reigns
where hearts once used to be.
Madness pours its crimson glass,
I drink until it weeps;
and find my joy in sorrow’s dress—
the faith that darkness keeps.
Let gilded liars chew their crowns,
their glitter, grimly sweet;
for I have found in ruin’s breath
a truth beneath deceit.
:: 10.30.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 