White sun nailed to a dead-ended sky. Iron ground where the promises die. Time is a weight that you’re forced to carry, In a cold, grey light that you cannot unmarry. No wind in the sail, no blood in the vein, Just the slow, steady silt of a vertical rain. You’re locked in the logic of a world made of glass, Watching the ghosts of your own life pass. But the skin is too tight for the heart underneath, And the words are all grinding like stone on the teeth. You’re kicking the air just to feel the resistance, To prove that there’s more to this hollow existence. It’s the heat of the friction, the burn of the shame, A desperate spark with a nameless name. If the sky is a lid that won’t let you breathe, Then you’ll tear at the seams just to watch it all seethe. Then the iron gives way and the pressure subsides, As the salt-water breaks through the internal tides. Not a flood of the river, not a gift from the years, Just the hard, frozen marrow dissolving in tears. It’s tracing the maps of the lines on the face, A bitter-sweet leaking of sorrow and grace. The winter is over, the lockdown is torn, And the water is the only way you can be born.
