Shards of silence splinter,
fractals in a firestorm,
spitting tongues of dissonance—
a thousand echoes collide,
furious in their quiet.
Cacophonous breath snaps the air,
a brittle pulse skittering on the edge
of infinity’s unraveling thread.
Fingers claw through time’s tattered skin,
guts of fate, entwined in the darkening loop,
each moment—shattered, resurgent.
The sky is a broken chandelier,
raining sparks like ghostly paperclips,
stretched too thin,
too jagged to catch—
each piece too sharp to hold,
to name.
Spirals twist through aching space,
each turn a jagged refrain,
unhinged from rhythm,
lost in sound—
chasing its own reflection,
a fractured symphony,
unsung,
stifled by its own reverberation.
Hunger for motion tears through the hollow,
frenzied like a feathered shard,
quivering in the teeth of wind,
caught in a whirl of starlight’s splatter.
The sky is endless,
but always breaking,
and always,
still,
it falls.