"Unmaking" Written By Milena Grubor

This day, they mark the weary turn of years,

But for my soul, it was the blackest of all spheres.

A black hole of existence, void of sound and grace,

Where melancholy silhouettes drift through the empty space.

No trumpet's sudden fanfare broke the heavy air,

No grand surprise to pull me from my fixed despair.

Just lonely, dragging hours where the minutes would not cease,

And hollow silence followed, bringing me no peace.

I asked for nothing more, and yet received the sum of less,

A perfect, dark communion with my utter emptiness.

I dwell within this waking dream, this life they bind me to,

I am still alive because they couldn’t let me go.

They brought their gifts and smiles, yet ignorance reigned supreme,

They never grasped the sorrow woven through my constant theme.

They could not see the deep contempt within my careful guise,

Nor realize the darkness hidden in my vacant eyes.

How blind, how cruelly ignorant, were they to think, in truth,

That I desired this brittle life, this fleeting, wasted youth?

To breathe this common air, to suffer every day?

They never knew the one true path I longed to take away.

I planned the final, careful cut, the silence deep and cold,

To break the ancient story that my struggling spirit told.

I would have killed myself, yet something kept me here inside,

A wicked chain of failing flesh that cannot be denied.

How wretched of me to think I could just walk away, I gasp,

From this abhorrent prison in my own decaying grasp.

I move among the living, but my final work is near,

For in the closing curtain, my true vocation is clear.

Let others seek their canvas, their marble, or their rhyme:

I am an artist when it comes to dying, skilled in time.

I just wanted to lay utterly empty, a figure made of stone,

To feel the vast indifference when all identity is flown.

How free it can truly be to claim the blackness deep and wide,

To simply be the vacuum where no single thought can hide.