the summer heat is a heavy trench
where the dust stays long after the light is gone
a humid weight inside the chest
where even the breath seems to bruise
the soft parts left behind
i am a field of rotted stone
buried beneath a sky of lead
disappointed in the way my hands
refuse to hold anything but ash
leaving the empty spaces black
there is a sharp tool in the dark
a blade left rusting in the weeds
and i am the one who let it drop
the mind that watched the well go dry
until the pulse was only dust
now the grey day dies against the glass
and the self is a well too deep to clear
staring up at a fading star
knowing i am the hand that cut the rope
and i must drown in what i made
—lyra moon (even a drought can leave you entirely underwater)
july 9, 2026