The echo of absence
Fill in everything
There is no room for clear thinking
Just the palpable shadow
Reality feels like worn-out fabric
Where there once was form
Now a cold question
Melancholy is the only true color
Paint the previous, stain the memory
Memories are not refuge, they are fragments
Each fragment cuts through the attempt to escape
The dark is not what is feared
But what is recognized
The void has its own anthology
There is no philosophy that consoles
Just the discovery of the bone
Of what was and is no longer