the glass is a deep and suffocating well
where a fragile wing beats itself to dust against its own image
they long for the frozen grace of currency
scrubbed free of the beautiful ache of being human
but i am the dark sediment of an ancient current
carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken lifetimes
a camera is a silver trap born of winter
drinking the soft fire of a living breath
to prove the spirit is only a handful of cold cinder
this gold hair is a desperate harvest
weeping over a scarred and forgotten earth
the quiet burial ground of the child i was meant to become
the shadow on my eyes is a constellation of grief
drawn in the dark to find the way back to myself
but the lens falls like a heavy guillotine
flattening the wild horizon into a blank floor
and the spirit hides in the deep fractures of the mind
weeping to be anywhere but trapped in this fragile shell
let the flawless worship their monuments of white stone
sculptures that never had to bleed to be wanted
this flesh is a torn and winter-worn garment
frayed by a lifetime of pushing through the thorns
it does not need the texture of luxury
to keep the center from turning to ice
i am a monument of broken granite
bleeding the dust of their endless cruelty
yet holding the fracturing world together
—lyra moon (you cannot document a heartbeat by breaking the chest that carries it)
july 10, 2026