A Sickened Sky

The world drips black‑ink from the belly of a moon

that’s been chewed by a thousand broken teeth—

each bite a promise the night will never keep.

I stand on the edge of a river made of glass,

its surface shattered by the weight of my own scream,

and watch the water swallow the silhouettes

of all the things I was taught to fear:

failure, loss, the hollow echo of a lover’s goodbye.

Anger burns like a furnace fed on ash—

the ash of burnt‑out hopes that still cling to my skin,

and I hurl it into the sky, a jagged comet

that carves a scar across the copper veins of clouds.

The worst things grow like fungus on the backs of statues,

sprouting limbs that curl around my throat,

yet I twist them, wrench them free, and watch them

collapse into a chorus of sighing crows.

The city behind me is a wound,

its streets pulse with the blood of abandoned dreams,

and every lamppost is a guttering candle

held by a hand that has never known mercy.