The Architect

I am the man who builds with shadows,

a mason of twilight, laying bricks

of memory and forgetting. My hands�"

scarred with centuries of stone�"

shape towers from the echoes of voices,

lifting roofs to shelter the unspeakable.

I have walked the fields where empires fell,

their dust mingling with the seeds of poppies.

I have drunk from rivers that remember

the salt of tears, their currents carrying

the dreams of fishermen and kings alike.

The earth is my parchment, and I inscribe

its shifting plates with the weight of men’s steps,

the rise of their ambitions,

the fall of their names into the sea.

There is no permanence,

save the silence between breaths.

Yet I carve cathedrals into the wind,

leaving their spires to catch the prayers

that wander from lips to sky.

The child in me once dreamed

of holding the sun in my fists,

but the man knows better.

Now I am content to mold the dusk,

to cradle the spaces between stars

and give them shape.

For it is in the absence of light

that truth breathes freely.

And in the dark,

the architect’s heart beats bold�"

not for what endures,

but for what must inevitably fall.

::01.02.2025 ::

Author's Note

Read it.