At the end of a path where no voices reside,
I walked where the dusk and the silence collide.
A flicker of light called soft from afar,
Like death in the shape of a delicate star.
I followed the gleam with no map in hand,
Each step was a whisper, each breath was unplanned.
Carved in my skin were questions I hide,
Written in scars that I wear from inside.
I dug through the dust in the cracks of my chest,
Hoping to find where the aching could rest.
I tasted the rope, the cliff, and the sea,
Each one a door that might set me free.
There’s a hallway ajar but it leads to no place,
An echo that weeps in the shape of my face.
The sky doesn't answer, the moon only stares,
As I try to dissolve in the weight of my prayers.
This isn't a plea, nor a scream for the light,
Just the rhythm of lungs forgetting to fight.
And maybe, one night, I'll quietly learn—
How to leave without leaving, how to never return.
This is a poem about a tired man, looking for a way to get lost, but not directly. He walks in the dark — testing water, rope, the height of a building, or even oblivion — not to cry out for help, but to feel where he will sink without having to return.
