MarquisAmonArt

The light is gray and tastes of dust A symphony of iron rust He counts the bolts upon the door and shadows pooling on the floor No letter waits, no voices call Just the silence leaning against the wall The ink has dried on every plea The lock has forgotten every key He remembers rain on open fields Before the grip that never yields And wonders if the moon still glows For a man who has no place to go The footsteps echo down the hall The longest, shortest walk of all He leaves a name carved in the wood A ghost where once the living stood Marquis Amon 2026