Nara’s Lines.

Hold me together,

and break me apart,

Love me whatever…

then leave me to die.

born to crawl,

and not to fly.

Breathe me alive,

then bleed me dry.

The station learned your weight by heart,

Yet never carved your name in slate.

It knew the hour we’d fall apart…

I only came to question fate.

The tracks bent inward, vein by vein,

As though emptiness concealed a scar.

I stood upon a ghostly train;

It never knew where living are.

I saw nothing but your eyes,

And how they’ve gone so dimly dead…

Staring out at butterflies,

While I sat there as our soul bled.

The train then unsealed said wings,

Your shadow answered it with breath.

You ran to all forgotten things…

A smaller, gentler form of death.

“You cannot reason with the devil.” Fine.

Then may I reason once with fate?

If mercy never crossed that line,

Will I always love you a breath too late?

I called your name. The lack replied.

It knew a language made of leaving.

The echo reached the other side;

Why did my believer stop believing?

I crossed the silence, the lack left no trace,

My shaking hands enclosed your face.

You looked at me and softly smiled,

No triumph there, no grand farewell;

Then shook your head… a gesture mild,

Too merciful It broke my will.

Don’t leave me learning butterflies,

Don’t trade your living, human eyes.

If you depart, then what goes through

My love… or everything I knew?

Still smiling, you denied me twice…

Once with your lips, once with your gaze;

The first forgave the cost of life,

The second mourned my future days.

I felt it then.

Not in my ribs…

But somewhere language cannot start.

As though your answer reached inside

And gently undid half my heart.

So before the train could steal the air,

I gathered you against my chest;

I thought if all of me held you there,

Perhaps the void would spare the rest.

Look at me.

Not at the train.

Not at the place that never grieves.

Look at the hands that still can shake.

Look at the chest that still can heave.

Don’t choose a sky that cannot rain.

Don’t make me learn your absence twice.

Don’t make me memorize your face.

With wings instead of living eyes.

But something yielded in my hold,

Not flesh, nor breath, nor blood withdrawn;

You thinned like sunlight leaving gold,

Like frost persuaded into dawn.

I held you tighter… far too much,

Your edges blurred beneath my touch.

You buried your face against my neck,

While desperate fingers chained your frame;

I folded every part of you

Into the hollow of my name.

Your voice dissolved against my skin

Whispered “Thank you, but It’s too late.”

And what’s worse than this damned sin…

To know we cannot reason with fate?

Not for the tears. Not for the fight.

Not for refusing to let go.

You thanked me like a dying light,

Who mourned the one he’d leave below.

I crushed you close, there was no home;

Every breath was a little gone.

You rested right where my heartbeat broke.

With the last words of gratitude you spoke.

I never felt you slip away

There was no moment, sharp or true.

There only came a time my arms

Were holding less… and less… of you.

—————————

One waiting train. One open door.

One passing by. A love no more.

What waits beyond that silent train?

Where living carved such endless pain?

What calls your name more loud than him?

That death now tastes like sacred sin?

If I have written both souls in rhyme,

Why must one sentence lose it’s line?

No blame to give, you couldn’t have stayed.

For you were a love born halfway decayed.

—————————

But If we were written from one breath,

Then let us be together, together in death.

Can’t you see it darling? I’m dying to live…

A pulse in my chest with nothing to give.

I breathe like a sinner who’s begging for air,

But life tastes like absence… Like no one is there.

I wear all my wounds like they’re part of the art,

The beauty’s just blood dressed to look like a heart.

So, my love… when I step or I stay,

Am I choosing my fate… or just dying afraid?

I reach for a future that slips through my hands,

A nightmare of a dream I don’t quite understand.

So tell me, my love… if I shatter tonight,

Will you call it surrender… or call it a fight?

Tell me, lover… what more must I give,

As an unforgiven… dying to live?

Three minutes.

A brief enough interval

for the mouth to remain half-open

after failing to finish a sentence.

Long enough to keep speaking in anger.

Too short to retrieve a single word.

And the tragedy is almost always intimate.

Nobody rehearses cruelty for strangers with such precision.

We reserve our most surgical language

for the people who memorized us gently.

The ones who know which silence means exhaustion,

which one means shame.

Love creates the map.

Anger simply learns how to read it.

So you stand before someone

whose nervous system has adapted to your existence…

someone whose days quietly bend around your habits,

whose body has made unconscious room for your voice…

and because you are irritated for a moment,

you attempt subtraction.

Not physically.

Something more permanent.

You try to make them doubt

their place in the world.

Shouting, cursing, doubting…

their place in your heart.

Then imagine being told

they will die in three minutes.

Not metaphorically.

Not poetically.

Their system will cease its negotiations with the world.

Every memory containing your face

will collapse with it.

The particular way they pronounce certain vowels,

the microscopic pauses before confession,

the private architecture of their grief…

Gone. Dead.

And three minutes.

Were all you had.

Notice… how the ego immediately retreats

from its performance of righteousness.

Notice how cruelty depends upon the illusion of endless time.

That is the humiliating scale of human conflict:

we destroy sacred things

over emotions that do not even remain recognizable

an hour later.

Meanwhile the person remains singular.

Entirely unrepeatable..

There will never again exist

someone who learned your face,

Who bore your eyes,

and who built a version of a future you’re already in.

You realize, too late,

that every vicious sentence required an assumption:

that there would be another morning

in which to repair it.

But there is something obscene

about gambling tenderness against time.

Especially when time has never promised anything.

Yet still people gamble them

against a temporary chemical event in the brain.

Anger is brief.

Its consequences rarely are.

You press your finger to the glass,

as if it owes you something back.

but all it gives is what you pass,

a mimic trained in how you crack.

You tried so hard to just be good

to earn a love the world deems true

you bent into what others would…

and lost what little felt like you.

Just wait, just change, as if it’s grace

Turns out it’s hunger dressed as “fight”

a quiet need to have a place…

a heartless bargain that you’re right.

Weak, a fool… you overspent it wrong.

Still acting like blame can clean all of this?

as if you haven’t dragged along…

each quiet practiced self-dismiss.

Say it plain… don’t twist the frame,

no martyr crowned you… none agreed…

belonging is suffering that costs your name…

You taught the bleeding to never need.

You want it gone? then understand,

no ghost is trapped behind that view…

there’s none reaching from the glass…

it doesn’t wish you dead. You do.

The room smelled sad… Like bleach, and rain.

His jacket hung beside the chair…

They spoke to me, but through the pain,

I only saw blood-covered blond-hair.

I should’ve drove you home that night,

I should’ve made you stay instead.

I should’ve known the traffic light…

Would turn the whole world bloody red.

Why do you look familiar enough…

Like I’ve seen it before… That view…

Something whispering… Cold who? Sharp what?

Nothing’s called déjà vu.

Your shirt was torn, your face was wet,

Your fingers slack inside my own.

I traced the marks the needles left,

And begged your body not to go.

The nurse said softly, “let him rest.”

I shook my head until it ached.

I pressed my ear against your chest

I know I heard the silence break.

“No. Get the doctor,” I said.

“Please look again, I know he’s fine.”

I checked your face. I held your head.

As If love alone could undo time…

“Get the doctor,” I say again,

and I am already splitting through,

because what doctor should they call

I’m standing here inside the room.

They dragged me away, how dare you fade.

“Time of death: four o four.”

“Just. Check. Again…” I said.

“Please. Once. He’s still warm.”

But they already covered your trace…

The blood. The musk. Your smell. Your face.

I hated everyone for that.

The janitor. The blinking lights.

The nurse adjusting someone else’s meds

While mine lay emptied out of life.

“He’s still warm,” That’s… so wrong,

not certainty, but something broke,

because my hands no longer belong

to the lie… my mouth just spoke.

One day, perhaps? I truly can’t say.

Was it last night? Or did that day fade away?

A garden so green, with life in its air.

And someone unknown.. what was his care?

We sat. And now.. what do I feel?

So many papers. So many holes to seal.

A killing void, a life so grim.

My dream? My lie? Or the shoreline’s rim?

Years, days, hours, seconds so fleet.

How do I run? How do I leave this seat?

⸻

How lovely the sun and stars up high.

Rest, for forever is this evening’s sky.

You didn’t get it, so I chose to be still.

I knew all you were, and you were all my will.

I said “go find a way,” but back you’d fall.

Back after decades, defeated by nothing at all.

I broke in plea, why’d you do this, why?

We shattered for reasons that couldn’t even cry.

⸻

What did I do? Who are you, say…

And why am I here, in this cursed play?

⸻

I am nothing, and all that you know.

I am your spirit, your deepest glow.

I’m a broken illusion of truth once bright.

A sane sick man in a dreamless night.

⸻

I was toyed with by one unknown.

He ran and hugged me, crushed my bone.

I opened my eyes to see my decay…

And I was the one who broke me that day.

I was both my safety and my ache.

I was my dawn, and the nights I break.

I dragged what’s left through that pitch-black sea.

I looked at myself… a corpse was me.

Then came the one with eyes that gleam.

My little illusion, my younger dream.

⸻

You took me to a garden so fair.

How lovely the sun and stars up there.

Let’s sit together… forevermore.

Glass so soft, breath’s warmth we store.

The dream is real. No waking sound.

Reality now, with no bounds.

⸻

I’m sorry… it’s time to stop the pain.

One stab, and together we’ll drain.

How lovely my shroud, dyed in red.

How sweet our death, where loyalty bled.

⸻

You made it. We made it. I don’t see you bleed.

A dear companion. A lie in need.

No one more joyful on this bright day.

No souls more blessed in any way.

⸻

My tears filled his eyes, the last goodbye.

And I opened my eyes again… alive, but why?

The hall was dim, the torches low,

The stage a hush, a waiting glow.

No banners hung, no gilded frame,

Just empty boards to bear their shame.

Riyu stepped forth with quiet grace,

His body shifting, mask of face.

A worker bowed beneath a load,

A mother wept along the road.

A child reached up with hollow eyes,

He mimed the hunger, traced the cries.

Then trembled hands, outstretched, unseen,

Yearned for a life that might have been.

From shadow then, a voice took wing,

The young moon words began to sing:

“The wheel turns slow, it grinds the weak,

The poor grow voiceless, though they speak.

Their tears fall deep, but who will hear,

The song of grief, so sharp, so clear?”

The crowd grew still, some bit their sleeve,

Some shifted low, afraid to grieve.

Yet in the silence hearts were stirred,

For sorrow spoke without a word.

Riyu collapsed, a frame undone,

Arms stretched to none, to everyone.

And Lanyue’s voice… so thin,and true…

Cut through the air like morning dew.

“If pain unvoiced can choke the breath,

Then silence is the cruelest death.

But should one soul dare speak, confess,

The world may learn its emptiness.”

The stage went dark. A breath, a sigh.

The crowd did not cheer, nor did they cry.

But in their gaze a question burned,

A seed was planted… truth had turned.

—————————————————————

The curtain fell, the hush still stayed,

The weight of silence thickly laid.

I turned and found him, calm, composed,

A storm concealed, yet half-exposed.

His chest still heaved, though eyes were bright,

He carried worlds within that night.

And words escaped before my thought:

“It was your fire the silence caught.

The way you moved, the grief you showed,

It struck their hearts, it carved the load.

My voice was naught without your frame,

You gave the sorrow shape, a name.”

He bowed his head, his gaze was kind,

A fleeting smile that eased my mind.

No boast, no sound, just steady grace,

As if the world bent to his pace.

ACT VIII: VERSEQUAKE

Across the towns, the whispers flew,

Of secret plays and verses read,

From square to street, the numbers grew,

A silent spark the people fed.

Riyu moved with careful grace,

Each gesture sharp, each plan in line,

While Lanyue spoke, his voice a trace

Of fire hidden in each rhyme.

Weeks blurred to months, the crowds expanded,

Performers trained in trust and art,

Their careful steps, a force commanded,

Each play a seed within the heart.

The empire stirred with quiet dread,

Reports of gatherings reached the throne,

Yet Lanyue’s words and Riyu led,

Their subtle storm the seeds had sown.

From market halls to city gates,

The people leaned, their voices stirred,

A hidden call that none could hate,

Each whispered line a sharpened word.

Backstage, Riyu’s silent hand

Guided Lanyue with steady care,

No sword, no threat, no open stand,

Just art that cut the air laid bare.

Months of toil, rehearsed with might,

The streets alive with quiet flame,

The empire sensed the growing fight,

Yet knew not how to curb the game.

At last, the hall grew bare and still,

They shared a glance, their fire aligned,

The plan was set, the crowds would fill,

A revolution in the mind.

Morning spilled its gold across the floor,

Papers and brushes scattered, ink poured.

I sat before him, anxious, unsure,

While Riyu moved, precise and pure.

He dipped his brush, then watched my lips,

Each word I spoke, each pause, each slip.

He traced the lines, adjusted the weight,

Shaping my verse, controlling fate.

“Begin,” I whispered, breath still tight,

“Tell me if these words will take their flight.”

He dipped his brush, then moved his hand,

Tracing my lines, each stroke a stand.

Then he rose, a silent cue,

And acted a scene, fierce and true.

A phantom court, a blade in air,

A king’s shadow, a queen’s despair.

I felt it pierce, my chest undone,

His presence sharp, like flashes. Stun.

I stammered, faltered, voice in sway,

He wrote my lines where shadows play.

He mimicked courtiers I’d never met,

Gestures precise, no hint of fret.

I watched and whispered, heart in awe,

“This… this is how the story saw.”

He paused, then gestured, ink in hand,

“Your voice, young moon, must take command.”

I read my verse aloud, he traced,

Each word and pause, perfectly placed.

Then he moved, arranging the space,

Chairs, and props, the stage, the grace.

“People will watch,” his nod implied,

“Their eyes will catch what lies can’t hide.”

I realized then, the depth he knew,

Of crowds, of whispers, of royal view.

Though silent, every gesture spoke,

A teacher’s patience, firm yet woke.

And in that quiet, I understood,

The madman, sane, had skill and blood

Of kings and stages, of lights and gaze,

He’d teach me how to set ablaze.

At last he bowed, and wrote again:

“Tomorrow, the first shall witness when

Our words will pierce where swords would fail,

Our truth will wind the royal trail.”

I met his gaze, a quiet flame,

Not of anger, but a shared aim.

The poet and the silent, the voice and the lines,

One way to move forward, one fate that defines.

At dawn, a knock once more was heard,

Not sharp with fear, but calm, assured.

I opened wide, the morning sun,

Revealed him, him and no one.

He bore a lot, no harm they seem.

All ink and brush, a poet’s dream.

A bundle set upon my floor,

With food, with drink, with paper more.

He set them down, then turned to me,

His hand upon the brush and tea.

I asked, still half in disbelief,

“What do you want of me, of grief?”

No word he spoke, yet clear it seemed:

This day began a different gleam.

I watched him spread the sheets so wide,

A battlefield we would not hide.

He looked at me, his gaze was still,

Then tapped the page, as if to will:

“Speak to me, i’ll write, we’ll start.

We’ll strike them first, with voice and art.”

I paused… my voice unsure,

“What war is this? What fight, what cure?”

He only smiled, his silence deep,

Then wrote a line my eyes still keep:

“A song may wound where swords have failed,

A word may spread where walls are nailed.”

I stared. My chest was strange, untied,

As if some flame had not yet died.

“You mean to strike them… with a play?”

He nodded once, then looked my way.

I shook my head, my heart afraid,

“But i am broken, I decayed.

What stage awaits a ruined man?

What crowd would hear a voice so damned?”

He looked at my hands, wrote the line:

“I’ll stand, they’ll watch, their eyes on mine.”

“You speak the truth they cannot see.

Together, one, we’ll work as me

This play must, and will rise,

And bring their rot before all eyes.”

I stared upon the brush’s mark,

The words cut deep, precise, and stark.

“You write like one who knows the art…

A poet too? You play that part?”

He paused, the ink still wet, then drew,

A crooked phrase, yet sharp and true:

“Not poet… no. Not my clan.

I’m something else… a sane madman.”

The words looked wrong, yet right as well,

Like riddles sung where madmen dwell.

I breathed, half shaken, half mused,

“My respect, your madness is well–used.”

He bowed his head, his shoulders light,

And wrote again with steady might:

“Sanity bends where fear commands,

Madness resists, it understands.”

The night got cold, he made hot tea,

He came back with just one for me.

A soft thick cloth wrapped the cup,

He brought it close, then lifted up.

Almost sipped it to ease my plea,

I blinked, my chest both stirred and free.

I wiped my hands against my knee,

“You don’t have to taste it, give it to me.”

He paused, a subtle smile in eyes,

A silent promise, no disguise.

No words were needed, none could say,

Maybe trust can choose to stay.

A knock… so faint, yet sharp, severe,

It froze my breath, it made me kneel.

Another knock, so patient, slow,

I feared the blade had come once more.

I clutched my arms, I shook with dread,

“I have no fingers left,” I said.

Another followed, again, the same,

A patient hand that had no name.

I pressed my back against the wall,

My chest was tight, my breath was small.

“Not again,” I cried, “I’ve nothing more!”

My hands are gone, my heart is sore.

I have no poems left to give,

No ink, no joy, no will to live.

But still the knocks returned, so plain,

A hollow thrum, a soft refrain.

I shouted hoarse, my body weak,

“My words are done.”my soul is bleak.

“Go back! Go back! I beg, depart!

There’s nothing here but shattered art!”

Yet silence pressed, then knock once more,

A rhythm steady at my door.

At last I rose, my spirit torn,

My eyes were red, my clothes were worn.

I pulled the latch with trembling hand,

And faced the dark where shadows stand.

A man stood there, with quiet eyes,

His presence did not speak of lies.

No sword, no chain, no soldier’s wrath,

Just weary steps upon my path.

He bowed, he waited, calm, undone,

A man who spoke with mouth of none.

I staggered back, my voice will break,

“There’s nothing left for you to take.”

He did not speak, did not reply,

He only watched, a steady eye.

“Why… why are you here? I have no kin.

I have no gift, no song, no pen.”

Still he remained, silent, still,

No threat, no evil, no ill-will.

I stepped aside, i let him in,

What will i lose, i lost within.

He placed a feather on the desk,

A soft, small gift, not grotesque.

I flinched, “what is this for?”

He stopped, then sat beside me on the floor.

I don’t know, let me be..

“Do you know who did this to me?”

A nod. Yes. And nothing more.

No word could match what silence bore.

“Will you hurt me? Are you like them,

Strangers with knives, strangers condemned,

Or will you maybe just stay here.”

A shake. No. Then yes. No fear.

I looked at him, uncertain, small.

“What is your name?” I whispered, stall.

He drew a scrap of paper, quill in hand,

And wrote with care, deliberate, planned.

I read aloud, looking at the sheet,

“Riyu..?” he nodded, silent, discreet.

“Will you help me? Will you stay near?”

A nod. Yes. precise, sincere.

“But… why never speak?” I hesitated, heart tight.

He smiled faintly, a secret in the night.

I gestured, voice soft, “You may move around,

If you wish, go freely, you are not bound.”

He stood. Then turned and walked away.

I thought he’d leave, oh who would stay?

He reached for water? cloths, and more,

He cleaned the blood upon the floor.

The sheets, the torn and stained with red,

He threw aside, the remnants shed.

Then he brought a bowl, a cup of tea,

Placed them before me carefully.

He lowered his head, a tilt so slight,

Tasted both, assuring me they’re right.

He stood near, then gave a bow,

And walked out, leaving a vow.

I reached for the tea, warm and black,

A paper under the cup. “I will come back.”

The candles shiver, shadows bend,

I sit alone, with no pretend.

My desk still bears a reddened stain,

Where ink and blood once ran the same.

I reach for pens I cannot hold,

The air is warm, my skin is cold.

My hand, now mangled, useless, bare,

Claws at the page in mute despair.

No letters form, no lines take flight,

The page is tomb, no words in sight.

I clutch my arms, I hide my face,

A ghost inhabits my own space.

What use is beauty when it breaks,

When death feasts on what it takes?

My lips are bitten till they bleed,

A desperate balm for phantom need.

I fold myself, a withered frame,

A poet’s shell without his name.

My eyes burn wet, my throat runs dry,

I cannot write, I cannot cry.

I rock, I hum, I ache, I shake,

And pray my soul they too would take.

The candles melt in waxy streams,

They mock my poems, my fragile dreams.

They took my gift, they took my breath,

What lingers here resembles death.

I wrote a verse beneath the moon,

A fleeting song, a beautiful tune.

I did not aim to wound or fight,

Only to capture what i thought right.

It had spread beyond my quiet room,

Through crowded streets, a whispered bloom.

Voices hummed with awe and praise,

The people marveling at my ways.

Children read aloud my lines,

Merchants whispered secret signs.

I smiled at letters, soft and sweet,

Each word i got, a lovely treat.

Weeks passed, the candles are low

And i sat alone in that tender glow

The page before me, half-filled, half-white,

My pen tracing shadows into the night.

A sudden crash! The door gave way,

Dark shadows poured into my stay.

I froze, my heart a hammering drum,

My mind awake, yet thoughts gone numb.

“Who… who are you? What do you want?”

I stammered, voice unsure, gaunt.

No answer came, only silent hands,

That reached for mine, that crushed my plans.

I twisted, begged, my knees to stone,

“What! I swear, I did no wrong.”

I saw the blade, i don’t know why,

I brought no harm, i told no lie.

They grabbed my wrists, they tore my wings,

And with each strike. This nightmare sings.

They cut him down, and oh, his screams,

A sound so pained it split the seams.

He screamed names though he knew them not,

Begged them to stop, swore he meant no plot.

“I wrote of the moon! I wrote of the rain!

Please, why? I meant you no pain!”

His cries split walls, his sobs shook air,

But darling mercy, was never there.

Steel shook his hands, his fate was seized,

His fingers severed as he choked, “Please!”

The floor was painted with crimson streams,

Ink spilled over in shattered dreams.

They left. He fell to the ground, curled,

A broken child in a nightmare world.

He pressed his hands to his chest,

As if to hide, deny, to rest.

He stayed, where they left him. There.

A wingless swan, bloodied despair.

And there I slept, my poem undone,

Ink and blood and tears all one.

I speak him first, we both live to write,

His voice, a feather, soft and so light.

Long black hair like midnight rain,

A messy river masking him sane.

Eyes like twilight, calm and deep,

Shine when admired, and lost in sleep.

A man unbroken, a swan-like line,

Each movement careful, measured, fine.

Hands that hold the pen with grace,

As if the world bends to his trace.

He walks as though the earth might break,

Yet leaves a trail no shadow can take.

His breath a rhyme, slow and sweet,

Each pulse a poem, each glance discreet.

I’ll write his words, they’re on my tongue,

A long lullaby yet to be sung.

ACT l: BECAUSE I MUST

I write because my heart must speak,

Not for praise, nor fame I seek.

The ink runs wild beneath my hand,

A river flowing through the land.

Each line I craft, a tender fire,

Born of passion, love, desire.

I do not chase the eyes of men,

Yet thousands pause to read my pen.

Their hearts are stirred; they cannot know,

Each word I write is for my own glow.

I laugh, I cry, I tremble, I sigh,

My soul laid bare beneath the sky.

They praise my eyes, say “calm and wide.”

Say “your lines burn, please never hide”

I love the touch of page, the scent of ink,

The quiet moment that makes me think.

I write because I cannot cease,

Because creation is my peace.

The candle flickers, what is time?

I lose myself in the rhyme.

I write because I must, because I dare,

Because the act itself is tender care.

And still, though silent, though unseen,

I shape the night, I mold the dream.

He doesn’t move, no, not another twitch.

The veiled has fallen in void-black pitch.

The hall retracts into its throat,

A gutted beast that swallows every note.

The chandeliers are bruised like silence hung,

And silence loads its gun right to my lungs.

I cross the stage, i close the curtains,

No more answers, and no more questions.

No eye shall leer, no tyrant’s lash remain.

The strings shall be, shall cut, shall stain.

This one is for just me…and you.

This funeral song is written for two.

I play.

Until the strings ignite.

Till shadows weep in molten white.

Each note, a plea..sing forgiveness, why?

Each cut, a pleasing..single cry.

And when the song dissolves to ash,

I snap the bow…a blade of jagged gash.

Its splinters bloom like wood in flame,

A crown of ruin christened in his name.

I do not speak.. What syllable could mend?

With the strings to my heart what’s left to bend?

Instead, I run.. a requiem of tread,

The hall shakes as I wake the dead.

The cage is there… The crystal of doom,

A door that locks the mouth of any room.

I drive the bow into my beating heart,

A scarlet echo floods this glass-cased art.

My knees collapse. My ribs crack in soundless harm,

My blood, your glass, a river braided into calm.

And as I fall, I clutch the frozen pane,

To write my vow in silent streaks of pain.

My blood reached your hands.

I chased you, no demands.

For you to understand.

This was indeed our last grand.

…………………………………………

Blood, they say, is thicker than the tide,

A binding force no storm can divide.

But here beneath this fractured glass,

Where death and scarlet intertwine and pass,

Blood bleeds into water, pure and cold,

And all the old oaths lose their hold.

No bloodline guards where tides have turned

In this one flood, all vows are burned.

A veil of lament so beautifully designed.

Two pairs of empty eyes, two loved, denied.

THE END

They met with nothing sacred in their hands,

just borrowed air and futures thin as thread,

two bodies trained to answer sharp demands,

not yet aware of what would not be said.

It happened quick… no ceremony, no pause.

Not built from trust, nor slowly understood.

Just something in the fracture of their flaws

that met, and locked, and settled where it stood.

No questions asked. No careful distance kept.

They stood too close the moment they aligned,

as if the space between them, if left,

would turn against them… tear them from behind.

They moved as if already used to this:

a second breath that did not need to speak,

a presence felt in every narrowed miss,

in every moment one of them went weak.

At first, the victories came clean and light:

a debt erased, a name restored, a breath…

they laughed like men untouched by old nights,

untutored still in the arithmetic of death.

They almost thought that might be all it took.

That if they stood, the ground would let them stay.

But loss had memorized them like a book

and turned the page… it always turns that way.

It took… not fast… but careful, like a thief

who knows exactly what you cannot guard;

it left them breathing, which is worse than grief,

and called that mercy, like it wasn’t hard.

And there… no speeches crawling to be said,

no fragile meaning dressed in noble use…

just one who did not leave the other dead,

and one who stayed, with one left to lose.

No victory survived them. None remained.

No clean belief to dress the damage done.

Just this: whatever else the world had claimed,

it did not take the fact they were still… one.

When new, they reveled in the win,

A spark that flared then swiftly died.

By end, they smiled at not giving in,

With one beside the other, one bloody ride.

And if loss tried again, or tried them twice,

or carved them down to something less than bone…

they’d answer not with hope, nor faith, or price,

but rather: no one walks out of hell. Alone.

So let hell witness. Let it keep track.

It’s either to death. Together, or bACK.