Literature
Lifeless
The ceiling breathes a shallow air,
The shadows trace my hollow frame.
The light creeps in with tired glare,
The walls have long forgot my name.
My heart is just a ticking ghost,
A clock within a ruined hall.
Of all the things I’ve loved the most,
I feel the least of them at all.
I carry silence like a stone,
A heavy grave that has no end.
The words I speak are bleached like bone,
With neither hope nor breath to spend.
The world is painting vibrant streaks,
In colors I no longer know.
While every passing minute seeks
A reason why I do not go.
I am not shattered, am not torn,
I do not scream or bleed or flare.
I’m just the ghost of something worn—
Still breathing, but without the air.
