If the gnawing ache of age
is the shadow that lengthens,
how can I stand with knees buckled by the weight
of years gone to rot,
seasons past,
my hands twisted like dry vines,
my breath stolen by a clock I never set?
Let the dirt claim me before I fall apart
Let the storms pull me onwards
Let the tides sweep me away
Let me skip the slow descent,
skip the waiting for my bones to turn to dust,
for why should the season
fall.
If I must choke on the absence of affection,
breathless and cold,
if love is but a hollow dream
that turns to mist when touched by light,
crumbling like dust,
how can I drag myself through another day,
no longer do I call,
the quiet screams echoing in my ribs,
whispers of a touch never felt?
Let me bury all that I once hoped for,
let me seal it behind a door I will never open,
quiet and eternal.
The world outside is a shroud of ash,
the sun a smudge on the horizon,
smears of orange yellow gold,
each gust of wind cutting through my chest
like jagged glass,
burning what last exists
In me,
The soil holds on to its dying roots,
but every gust sends more bones to this precious earth
this is the silence that holds my name.
My life is the echo of things broken,
things lost, shattered stains of glass,
those old forgotten songs,
when roads taken that lead to null,
a thud of footsteps that never find rest,
walking the path of nothing.
I long for stillness,
but the clock keeps ticking,
mocking my empty hands,
mocking my broken soul,
all that has been longed for,
never shall be known
Behind the clouds, the sun sits
a pale witness to the slow burn of all things.
I carry this weight as I was meant to,
a heritage of sorrow sewn into my flesh
by ancestors who knew the cost of survival,
those who took more,
those who left less.
In the room by the window,
I stare at the void,
empty,
my gaze as heavy as the weight I carry.
The pills sit untouched,
like promises that never come true.
Depression grows quietly,
Regrets follow
a shadow pulling the veil tighter.
I say I feel nothing.
But I see the hollow where my heart used to beat,
the hole time has worn,
It’s a heavy silence I share
the kind that drowns you without a sound.
Don’t fret, I tell myself,
this too shall pass.
(Lies.)
It will be over soon.
(Lies.)
like eyes that stare into the distance.
I say this to myself.
Softly,
And to the mirror that refuses to show me the truth.
Let me sit beneath a sky that doesn't care.
Let me listen to the wind,
Let me feel the rays upon my skin,
if only it would speak a truth that isn’t hollow.
I will love you, forever and softly,
like a wound that never fully heals,
open and dripping,
always.
Let me remain in my room,
my sacred space,
a stranger to the light,
a friend to the darkness,
a silhouette,
in shaded hues,
Let me weave the remnants of a life that never took form,
in the sleep of each day,
shattered fragments,
plague broken thoughts,
and I will love you, fiercely,
like a storm that never ends,
like the wind that uproots the fields,
like the ocean reshaping the shore,
until time calls my soul,
for what can change time.
Let me run through the fields
like a wild thing,
like my memories of youth,
no chains, no boundaries.
Until the cold winds of autumn
come creeping,
come calling,
the inevitable,
until they strip me bare and carry me away.
I will wait,
not for the end,
but for the quiet that follows,
the quiet yonder
unknown.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
Fading lights