Tag: cinematic writing

Deafening Silence

It comes without warning,
like snow deciding the forest has said enough.

No hush, no shhh—
only abrupt vacancy
where small sounds once rented rooms.

The clock, once ticking like nervous fingers,
now pauses between seconds,
unwilling to be first to violate the truce.

In this wide, white room without echo,
even memory moves softly,
careful not to wake the next thought.

Silence is not absence.
It is a different density—
the weight of everything
that was nearly spoken
pressing inward against the ribs.

Here, grief finally releases its breath
without excuse.
Here, joy learns
it does not require an audience.

Stay.
Let the hush complete its long sentence.
It has been composing it
since the first word learned how to sound.

The Lamp and Ashes III

O light, you were no ornament.
You were the straightedge laid against my testimony,
the surveyor’s chain drawn tight around desire,
the plumb dropped through my ribs
to hear what truth survived the speech of virtue.
You examined without anger—
as a judge weighs a witness,
as the sea tests a harbour wall.

Then I feared you—
not like thunder in the hills,
but like the first question under oath.
You uncovered the quiet frauds
filed in the docket of habit:
the courteous lie, the mercy postponed,
the sweet intoxication of being right.
My will, that bright defendant, raged and struck.

And in the inward stillness
a word lifted like smoke from hidden coals—
thelema, the hard name of will—
and with it the statute written in stars:
not licence, but allegiance—
Love is the law, love under will.
The brighter the lamp, the clearer the dust.

The First Bone

Beneath this ink lie teeth and vows,
ribs of tales,
brittle and time-cleaned bone.

Here, words are an ossuary
of brows,
and knuckles,
knotted prayers that never dream.

I write with marrow.
Let the page decay.
Let tongues recall what lips
were taught to spare.

Each word is flint;
what burns shall stay —
a ghost that leaves its fingerprints
in air.

There is no holy here,
no clean descent,
only ash and root,
and something sharp with wings.

You came for light?
Then watch how dark is bent
to frame the place where light
first learns its rings.

So walk between these letters,
grave and thin.
When a story dies,
that is where we begin.