The laughter my mother gave, a bright, small bird,
has flown so far its song is a ghost.
Now, her name tastes like ash, a refusal blooming
in the space where her footsteps lingered,
her dreams, heavy blankets I shrugged away.
My own hands at my throat, a constant pressure,
choking the memory of her smile, her quiet faith.

That feeling held, by the weathered wood of the quay,
a happiness etched in the southern, salty air -
now haunts the edges of my days, a constant reminder,
having sailed on a tide that knows no return,
leaving a void where once a world resided.

I walk the worn paths, a puppet of habit,
through days sketched in grey. These motions,
a script written before my first breath, a choice
made in a silence I could not break.

And the wanting claws in my chest:
a whisper of approval from the unseen?
A purpose found, to anchor this drifting soul?
To witness colours that have long since dulled,
leached out by this relentless rain within?

I know this self, this architect of my own pain,
will dismantle piece by weary piece,
until the blueprint is lost, the structure gone,
and no one will recognise the ruin that was me,
just as the silence that follows a breaking wave
holds no echo of the crash that came before.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Lupar, in the year 975 AF.