God Knows I Still Whisper

On love, silence, and the sacred echo that never quite returns, when reason dims, and the stars forget your name, speak anyway.

It started soft: a silver thread that wound through thought, then stitched the bed. A whisper caught behind the glass—too sharp to keep, too faint to pass.

I dreamt in rooms of mirrored light where echoes folded into night; where shadows spoke in borrowed tones and silence learned to stand alone.

No fever came, no spark, no cry; just velvet hush and lullaby. I learned to drift without my weight, to sip the dusk and name it fate.

My name turned pale. My hands stayed clean. I smiled. I spoke in what’s between.

There are no demons cast in flame, just softened shapes without a name. They speak like us, in borrowed grace, and leave no imprint, leave no trace.

They pass in light, not cloaked in night, and wear belief as veil or rite. We walk beside them, unaware, or worse: we breathe the same thin air.

Not beasts, but mirrors, finely dressed, with tempered laugh and clever jest. Too trained to flinch, too taught to feel, we sanctify what cannot heal.

I do not flinch at hand or gaze, but note how well I bend to praise: how smooth the lie, how soft the grace, like hymns that bloom in broken place.

I mourned the wound, the thief, the wrong, but I, too, learned to play along. More sinned against, yet sinning still, and sin, once chosen, grips the will.

They taught me logic, so I bowed, in reason’s name, precise and proud. They called it faith; I made it chore, a scaffold raised, then wept before.

What scraps of virtue yet persist are relics worn too thin to list—a rite repeated, hollow grace, mistaken for a sacred face.

But deeds, once done, refuse retreat. No prayer can render them discreet. No saint corrects the words we spend; we speak, and speech becomes the end.

And memory, that blind-eyed priest, will trim the truth to grant us peace.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow still, it coils and drags, bereft of will, a slug beneath a rusted throne, that creeps, yet claims no ground, no stone.

It heaves in slow, recursive tread, a dirge for days not wholly dead. And I—no face, no form, no guide—drift after it, uncrucified.

Time is rot. It blooms, then bleeds. It festers thought, unthreads the creeds. It pries the latch, then locks the gate. It asks no questions, answers fate.

No splendour crowns the stillborn days. No music stirs in stagnant praise—only the slow, recursive toll of waking, waking, with no goal.

I have outlived the need for signs—the crow, the cup, the crooked lines. No angels speak, no stars confess, and still I move in quiet dress.

The days collapse in silent code—no fate above, no path, no road. But still I hum, though none respond, and still I cast my line beyond.

Call it delusion, call it grace, a vow I keep, though none retrace. Not madness, no, nor martyr’s light, just something small that won’t ignite, but glows, and glows, and holds its place.

Though this be madness, let it stay, a rhythm shaped in disarray. You called it madness, soft and sly, to cage the howl, to blind the eye.

But it is power, veiled and still, a fever bent to sharpened will.

They name the wildness to contain, not crown it, only to explain. A hush imposed, a shape assigned, to thoughts too loud, to storms unlined.

What doesn’t bow, they call askew, a mirror warped to make it true.

I flinch no more at that decree; its chambers echo so tenderly. More kind, more vast than reason’s keep, it sings to those the wise let weep.

They say that reason offers light, but I have knelt beneath its sight and felt no warmth within its beam, only the hush of some old scheme.

So let me keep my flickering thread, speak softly with the long-since dead. Let me drift where silence grows, where wildness hums and logic slows.

The stars no longer chart the course; they blink, then darken, with no remorse. Once carved our fate in holy flame, now burn for nothing but a name—aloof, adorned, and faintly cruel, they glitter cold, a jewelled rule.

I begged the sky to send me sign; it offered silence, sharp and fine.

I read the stars as scripture clear, but only static met my ear.

The fault lies not in stars or signs, but murmurs through our own designs. How cruel to bear the weight alone, and pray to gods carved out of stone.

No thread, no map, no fate foretold, just consequence, composed and cold, that hums beneath the skin and bone, and speaks in hush, not flame or throne.

Yet still we pose, the chosen few, as if belief could make it true.

Love? I bore my heart with nought for shield—laid bare, unarmed—a fallow field. The daws descend, as daws are made, not cruel, but clean, and undismayed.

I was not forged for chain or blade; I do not shine. I am not saved. I flare, at best, when torn apart, a fault too simple: to have a heart.

I mistook echo for a vow, and fevered touch for here and now. I read the dawn that dared to stay as augury, not slow decay.

I do not grieve the gift I gave, but that it warped, defiled, unbrave, not sealed in bond, but loosely cast, a hunger veiled in prayer and fast.

Love summoned all that breath could spell—a hymn, a pulse, a vesper bell. Yet order, cold, made fire its prey, then sheared the flame and named it fray.

No gods. No light. Just night-born time, that limps through hours too small to climb. And bitter ways we self-reprove, and dawns that ache but do not move.

Hell is murky. I am shade, not demon, no, but light delayed: a flicker caught behind the wind, a breath that trembled, waned, and thinned.

I speak, and silence grips the air. I kneel, but nothing answers there. No heaven left to hear my cry. No vaulted echo in the sky.

If I am punished, it is hush. If I am spared, it is the crush of one more day that leaves no mark but drapes the world in softer dark.

And still, I dress in silk and ash, as if my beauty bore the cash to bribe the void its heavy fee, to keep it from consuming me.

And still, I throw it to the blue, not to ascend, but fall on cue. To fall with form, with poised despair, to make collapse a thing of air.

I do not kneel for peace to come. I crave the hush that strikes me dumb, not calm, but stillness, dark and wide, where even breath forgets to bide.

If this be madness, let it rise, a flame unlit beneath the eyes; let it speak not sweet, but true, in voices hoarse from breaking through.