Conograph of a Silent light
The century is dying in the dark.
It is twenty-ninety-nine; the sky is gray,
and heavy towers choke the morning air.
The world has traded soul for spark,
turning the human heart to cold display,
and no one living knows the life I bear.
They have forgotten how a house can grieve,
or what it costs to watch a loved one fade
while holding up the world with bleeding hands.
The sterile minds of this new age believe
that peace is bought, and destiny is made
by iron gears and digital commands.
But underneath the neon and the stone,
the life I lived remains a quiet law.
The times I sat unloved and learned to rise,
the heavy, bitter paths I walked alone,
have left a warmth the machines never saw,
a hidden sun beneath these altered skies.
Tonight, a citizen of twenty-ninety-nine
sits by a window, drowning in the strain
of trying to belong, but falling short.
They feel a worthlessness they can't define,
a sudden, ancient echo of my pain,
trapped in a modern, mechanized resort.
Then, like a frequency they did not seek,
my final victory breaks through the chill—
the grace it took to finally let go.
It teaches them to breathe when they are weak,
to realize they are valued, standing still,
inheriting a truth they do not know.
I am a ghost to twenty-ninety-nine,
my name long vanished from the shifting sand.
But as that lonely stranger starts to heal,
they trace the invisible, immortal line
of a forgotten writer's steady hand,
and learn, at last, how humans ought to feel.
I