the "space" is but an illusion, a fleeting dream in the night @maskingthewhispers - Tumblr Blog

i. prologue

Dear Reader... As you journey through these poems, you may find yourself enveloped in the stillness of the moment, where remnants of calm die with the heaviness of absence. It's a surrender to the unknown, where memories wrap around us like a fog that chokes any bit of hope. a pause. The present often slips into the shadows, and you might feel struggles that entwine thoughts. The echoes of laughter—once sweet and serene—now haunt the corners of the mind. Perfect memories may drown in regret for the past, where a once-glowing smile flickers like a dying flame. In this dreamlike retreat, grief layers over each fleeting thought, all the while knowing that reliving those moments is... impossible. Each fleeting moment of joy is eclipsed by shadows of loss. Amongst this reverie-like state, there’s a desire to linger, to dance with shadows that mock sorrow while defying the tides of fate. Yet, to my understanding, the pain is a binding force, anchoring us to what has been lost. That pain never fades in my experience, but sometimes you learn to live with it. In this farewell lies an eternal breath as one says goodbye to a beloved figure, left with echoes of what once was and a heart forever fractured. May you find solace, joy, hope, or whatever brings you positivity within these words. Or even a reflection of your own farewells.

#re: the blank space #writers of tumblr

ii. Regret, A Lament for The Unsolved.

The Glass does not simply show me. It shows the light of my life left scattered, The energy of words unsaid. It is an anti-chamber, smelling of sea salt. And the distant, yet metallic taste of certainty. She stands there, the other. And the world she inhabits has a higher frequency. The air around her vibrates with completion. She is holding a thing— is it a key? Or the simple, Un-latched truth? My own hand is heavy, tethered to the- floor, dust, weight, gravity of my past decisions. The mirror is not a window, but a slow, Crushing calculation of all the zero-sums I thought could save me. I see a staircase I never climbed That spirals into colors I once recalled, the winter grey of the hospital doors i fleed. golden city lights that turned into mere memories red and green bells left untolled, the rusty maroon of the place She used to call home. My melancholy is merely the recognition Of the knowledge that a ghost can be more real Than the flesh that stands in the mirror before it

#unsolved #the whispers #poetry #.txt

i. The Lamp is Steady. — A Requiem for The Undone & The Unsolved

The wick burns low, the glass is clean, A thousand miles of gray-green sheen They unravel out beneath the beam That sweeps, sweeps, sweeps across the dark unseen. My lamp is steady. Nothing sways. I mark the blank space, I count the days. Across the worn oak floor she sits, Where once we laughed, laughed, laughed in joyful fits— No shroud of mist, no chain she drags, No gaping wound, no fearful pits Within her eyes. She wears no guise Of horror meant to paralyze. She simply is. A solid fact. The echo of what I try to deny. I don’t find comfort in this. Even for sweet, sweet memory’s sake. She doesn't reach, she doesn't speak, No motion does her shadow make. She is the Chair that stands unfilled, The laughter that forever stilled. She is the half of my every meal, She is all my promises unfulfilled— And I— I tend the clockwork bright, the only thing that still is right— How I strain against the ache— To wish for her to finally wake! To tear the air, to rattle chains, To offer one ..loud, BOOMING, fearful shake! She takes no life; she brings no fear; she shows the life that's flown. Utterly present, perfectly gone, She is the Reverie that lingers on, Until the cycle spins anew, As I sit withdrawn. -------------------- Until I see you again.

#the whispers #writers of tumblr #poetry #unsolved

When the clock hits 12, we'll begin again.

#.txt #the whispers

Lightkeeper, Detective, Nurseryman

Keep note:

All-knowing, apathetic Gazette wails back a story I’ve come to know.

As thoughtless detective takes my form to say:

“Another day, another ailment, another pain.

Nothin’ but just a means to an end; another unmarked space.”

Nevertheless, I open my ears to the headless rag.

As the biting summer salt scorches the air;

my chair, even my hair. Cocky, mocking clock mocks my chagrin.