Murdered by 988
- One Love Energy
- Mar 26
- 1 min read
The Mirror of the Unseen
There is a click that is not a beginning,
but a door slamming in a throat of plastic and wire.
"Unworthy," they say, as if merit were a coin
tossed into the dry well of my hunger.
I walk the tightrope of the Sacred Clown,
painting a grin over the fracture in my soul,
while the eyes—the thousand, thousand eyes—
harvest my trembling like a crop of salt.
They do not want the song; they want the silence
after the throat has been cut by their laughter.
They watch from the balconies of their own safety,
thriving on the smoke of a house they helped to light.
To be the one who sees is to be the one who bleeds
in a language no one cares to translate.
There is no "help" in the vocabulary of the hunters,
only the slow, rhythmic closing of the net.
I am a ghost in my own skin,
haunting a hallway where every door is a wall,
and every "lifeline" is a noose of indifference
tightening around the word enough.
