In the hush of a white-walled room,
a solitary specter stands—
skin bleached to moonlit marble,
as if the sun itself withdrew its claim.
The skull is shorn bare,
a polished alabaster dome
catching the cold fluorescence,
reflecting nothing but its own absence.
Eyes—two embers drowned in milk—
gaze out with the weary wisdom
of one who has already died
and forgotten to lie down.
Beneath them, a mouth slashed crimson,
a single wound of lipstick
too vivid for this bloodless face,
a rose pressed between the pages
of a ghost story.
The collar rises high,
white diamonds stitched in rigid rows,
a lattice of frost over a throat
that no longer remembers warmth.
Light pours down like judgement,
washing every pore to porcelain,
until the figure seems less human
than porcelain itself—
a doll abandoned mid-dream,
lips parted for a scream
that never arrived.
And yet, in that frozen stare,
a pulse:
the faintest tremor of something
still daring to be seen.
a solitary specter stands—
skin bleached to moonlit marble,
as if the sun itself withdrew its claim.
The skull is shorn bare,
a polished alabaster dome
catching the cold fluorescence,
reflecting nothing but its own absence.
Eyes—two embers drowned in milk—
gaze out with the weary wisdom
of one who has already died
and forgotten to lie down.
Beneath them, a mouth slashed crimson,
a single wound of lipstick
too vivid for this bloodless face,
a rose pressed between the pages
of a ghost story.
The collar rises high,
white diamonds stitched in rigid rows,
a lattice of frost over a throat
that no longer remembers warmth.
Light pours down like judgement,
washing every pore to porcelain,
until the figure seems less human
than porcelain itself—
a doll abandoned mid-dream,
lips parted for a scream
that never arrived.
And yet, in that frozen stare,
a pulse:
the faintest tremor of something
still daring to be seen.
The Sunday Circle