In the vacuum where color goes to surrender,
a lone silhouette ignites the void.
Skull shaved to the orbit of zero,
a perfect sphere of lunar ash,
polished until it forgets the sun
and remembers only its own reflection.
Skin: a parchment of absolute winter,
every vein exiled, every freckle executed,
until the surface becomes a screen
projecting nothing but the terror
of being seen without disguise.
Eyes—
two black pearls dropped in heavy cream,
half-shut against the glare of existence,
lids bruised violet by the weight
of every dream that refused to burn.
They do not blink.
They indict.
Between them, a nose sharp as the first lie
ever told in paradise,
leading the pilgrim downward
to the single blasphemy:
a mouth lacquered in liquid garnet,
thick, wet, deliberate,
a wound that learned how to sing
in the language of open arteries.
The lips part just enough
to reveal the promise of teeth
that have bitten through every chain
and still hunger for the hand that forged them.
Collar rising like cathedral spires
woven from arctic silk and diamond wire,
each quilted ridge a step
on the staircase to an unreachable god.
It clasps the throat the way empires clasp colonies:
beautifully,
completely,
without remorse.
Light descends in a guillotine of white,
slicing every shadow into confession,
until the body itself becomes a relic
encased in its own frozen scream.
Yet inside that scream
a slow ember rehearses resurrection:
one heartbeat,
two,
three—
counting down to the moment
the porcelain cracks
and the red mouth laughs
loud enough to shatter galaxies.
This is not a photograph.
This is the moment before the apocalypse
decided to wear couture
and pose for its mugshot.
Look closely:
beneath the glacial mask,
a volcano practices its name
in the mirror of your fear.
It is almost ready.
Almost.
a lone silhouette ignites the void.
Skull shaved to the orbit of zero,
a perfect sphere of lunar ash,
polished until it forgets the sun
and remembers only its own reflection.
Skin: a parchment of absolute winter,
every vein exiled, every freckle executed,
until the surface becomes a screen
projecting nothing but the terror
of being seen without disguise.
Eyes—
two black pearls dropped in heavy cream,
half-shut against the glare of existence,
lids bruised violet by the weight
of every dream that refused to burn.
They do not blink.
They indict.
Between them, a nose sharp as the first lie
ever told in paradise,
leading the pilgrim downward
to the single blasphemy:
a mouth lacquered in liquid garnet,
thick, wet, deliberate,
a wound that learned how to sing
in the language of open arteries.
The lips part just enough
to reveal the promise of teeth
that have bitten through every chain
and still hunger for the hand that forged them.
Collar rising like cathedral spires
woven from arctic silk and diamond wire,
each quilted ridge a step
on the staircase to an unreachable god.
It clasps the throat the way empires clasp colonies:
beautifully,
completely,
without remorse.
Light descends in a guillotine of white,
slicing every shadow into confession,
until the body itself becomes a relic
encased in its own frozen scream.
Yet inside that scream
a slow ember rehearses resurrection:
one heartbeat,
two,
three—
counting down to the moment
the porcelain cracks
and the red mouth laughs
loud enough to shatter galaxies.
This is not a photograph.
This is the moment before the apocalypse
decided to wear couture
and pose for its mugshot.
Look closely:
beneath the glacial mask,
a volcano practices its name
in the mirror of your fear.
It is almost ready.
Almost.
The Sunday Circle