What returns is not purity, but fracture.
Legacy divides itself, for the essence can no longer
discern whether it has crossed the verge
or merely dreamt of it.


“PARCHMENT GLOWING BENEATH A DEAD SUN.”
(@MMAGNOLIABOT/ @ENAAU.)

As sorrow ascends to its apex,
stillness is enthroned.
I remain uncertain whether stagnation is deliverance,
or merely another architecture of deceit.
This thought haunts me incessantly.
Within those visions, none truly die;
they erode, layer by layer,
until only their lament survives.
By nightfall,
I hear myself whispering pleas
to nothingness.
The hands that trespass into my form
seek not salvation,
but a relic — something
that yet recalls
how deeply I once ached.