In the hush of a bleached noon,
a lunar sovereign rises from the ash of men,
crowned by the razor’s quiet tyranny.
Skin drinks the light until it forgets its hue,
becomes porcelain forged in the kiln of exile.
Eyes, two embers smuggled from a colder star,
gaze out beneath brows drawn by a god who ran out of ink.
They know the weight of every stare that tried to name them
and answered only with the silence of snow.
The mouth, a single wound of scarlet,
parts the monochrome like a rebel flag.
It is the last drop of blood in a marble statue,
the only proof that something once had pulse.
A collar of white lattice climbs the throat
like ivy claiming ruins,
as if fabric itself were trying to remember
how bodies used to be allowed to breathe.
Behind the figure, the wall exhales dust,
a witness too tired to speak.
Between them, a haze,
neither breath nor ghost,
but the residue of every name
they burned to become this.
Here stands the negative of a prayer,
the photograph no camera dared to take,
the instant after the world blinked
and forgot what it was looking at.
Behold the alabaster enigma,
beautiful the way a guillotine is beautiful
right before it forgets mercy.
a lunar sovereign rises from the ash of men,
crowned by the razor’s quiet tyranny.
Skin drinks the light until it forgets its hue,
becomes porcelain forged in the kiln of exile.
Eyes, two embers smuggled from a colder star,
gaze out beneath brows drawn by a god who ran out of ink.
They know the weight of every stare that tried to name them
and answered only with the silence of snow.
The mouth, a single wound of scarlet,
parts the monochrome like a rebel flag.
It is the last drop of blood in a marble statue,
the only proof that something once had pulse.
A collar of white lattice climbs the throat
like ivy claiming ruins,
as if fabric itself were trying to remember
how bodies used to be allowed to breathe.
Behind the figure, the wall exhales dust,
a witness too tired to speak.
Between them, a haze,
neither breath nor ghost,
but the residue of every name
they burned to become this.
Here stands the negative of a prayer,
the photograph no camera dared to take,
the instant after the world blinked
and forgot what it was looking at.
Behold the alabaster enigma,
beautiful the way a guillotine is beautiful
right before it forgets mercy.
The Sunday Circle