u/Alarmed_Big_562

The first hallow day,

the last he would be —

the cold son shines in the Fall.

Drowning — lungs fill with tears.

.

Our watershed.

.

Father and Mother —

chests twisted and sallow.

Agenesis — the birth of death.

.

Mother’s gift — a grand plush teddy, adorned:

fur, as soft as his skin, its ebony nose —

and a ribbon.

.

The second hallow day,

the last he would be —

the cold son shines in the Spring.

Father walks — taking breath.

.

Quietly perching above the ward, a murder gathers.

.

At once — a screaming cloud, wings clapping.

Echoes between buildings.

.

Run — fast.

Threshold crossed —

to her bedside, gasping.

.

empty hands.

Boundless heavens — embers to ashes, creation and destruction in perpetuity.

We, born of the stars, ride the light between darkness.

Spontaneous collisions of form seem reverentially designed —

yet not guided by fate, nor shaped by ambition —

but instead by chance:

those improbable revelations crossing.

The order of things, seemingly

orchestrated —

becomes a design stitched from dread:

the fear beyond being.

What were we? Here, then gone —

a flicker, a blink inside forever.

No heaven or anguish await reckoning.

No intent. No good or evil —

only contradiction in the absence of reason.

Moments born, shattered, then born again —

each one a brief spark folded back into time.

We arrive.

We breathe.

We love, we lose —

then — a blink.

And still, we must name it —

to name us, to name significance —

before the unbounded fade — before we blink.

A man, bent beneath sorrow’s mantle,

wanders a forest path,

cradling the fragile glow of hope.
.
His desire for solace ever present, the path reveals moments where ache softens, and the world feels kind.
.
One such moment … a birdsong drifts down a spiral of light —

breaking shadows woven through treetops —

descending upon a whispering, luminous thread.
.
A wanting gaze upward beholds a sparkling bird in song.

Souls resurrected by melody —

bound by fate.
.
A hymn, as solitary comfort.

Calming, peaceful, warm —

stirring belief, that finally he was found —

he had found … home.
.
The song unsealed reverence not yet understood —

out of time, out of place.
.
So essential, it summoned forth the offering:

a hand outstretched — a sacred invitation, of refuge, of surrender —

in exchange for her song’s quiet healing.
.
The bird descends —

a determined flit toward, then away —

back up to its closed rest among the trees —

sparkle folded into shadow, its gift hovering just beyond reach, an eternal melody illumined in mind and soul.
.
Again he gestures, the hopeful hand extended.

Each attempt unanswered —

the bird untethered —

solace retreating.
.
He wonders: why will it not land?

Perhaps it awaits the right hand —

yet all the while, it was his left he offered.

A hand impossibly bound in the life of his making.

.

The sparkle — a mirage.

Her shimmering plume conceals a dispirited refrain.

Twinned darkness, a spiral — open, hidden — swallowing their light.
.
And still, her song drifts —
unsettled, he remains in the silence, eternally waiting…