I fear the hush, the hollowed crush,
the ghost that breathes where breath should shush.
A ghost, I say, yet not by name;
she hums, she maims, she claims her game.
She is but a specter that slips through every door,
through mouths that don’t beg for more.
no word she speaks, no form she\'s known,
a wisp, swift; The Seed unsown.
She rides the glass of a dim-lit eye,
cracks it open, dusts the lie;
and through the fissures, quiet and thin,
nothing drips, then all falls in.
A pause too long is the last refrain,
the song that fades, again, again.
A sun erased, a trace, a stain,
a wound that wounds itself again.
What is a city but thought unspun,
its streets undone, its clocks outrun?
What is a face but a fading line,
a name erased by time’s design?
Nothing, nothing—nothing again!
No name, no shape, no touch, no end,
just ghostly gleams and susurrus loud,
no voice, no sound, no mind, no crowd.
her name is nowhere, numb in night,
a smear on the smothered light.
she knocks on the mind’s last door;
an obscurity\'s echo evermore.
I see her through the glass, the pane,
there at the edge, so soft, so vain;
her shadow speaks in empty tongue,
“Go on,” she sighs, “become undone.”
Will you chase me through the air,
beyond the sky, and everywhere?
I fear her voice more than the void,
more than the silence once enjoyed;
for she is more than empty space,
a breath before the fall from grace.
She speaks where sound was meant to sleep,
and in her whispers, the world weeps.
I fear her:
the endless tug, the endless trace,
the hollow song that leaves no space.
For in her dark, all things go blind,
and death becomes the only kind.