Splinters In The Fog
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DescriptionA poem of unseen fragments.
MessageWho?
ImageMonomoy Writes
There’s a weight in the air,thicker than thought,heavier than regret.The kind you don’t breathe.You choke on it,feel it carve lines into your chest.
Streetlights blur into whispers,soft pulses of dying suns.Each step is a question,answered only by the echoof worn-out shoes on asphalt veins.
Somewhere, a radio murmurs:static, a melody,a voice that doesn’t know you.And yet, you listen—like a child to a bedtime storythey’re too scared to finish.
The world is alive in fractures,splinters in the fog.You gather them,one by one,until they form a mosaicof everything you tried to forget.
But mosaics have sharp edges.And tonight,you’re bleeding.
Streetlights blur into whispers,soft pulses of dying suns.Each step is a question,answered only by the echoof worn-out shoes on asphalt veins.
Somewhere, a radio murmurs:static, a melody,a voice that doesn’t know you.And yet, you listen—like a child to a bedtime storythey’re too scared to finish.
The world is alive in fractures,splinters in the fog.You gather them,one by one,until they form a mosaicof everything you tried to forget.
But mosaics have sharp edges.And tonight,you’re bleeding.
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