The Poem That Knew Death

The Poem That Knew Death

I wrote a line,

and the shadows bent toward it,

pressing cold against my hands,

folding darkness into syllables.

The stanza trembled,

its words sharp as knives,

and I realized

poetry could summon more than beauty.

Even the candle shivered,

casting trembling light,

and I felt

the pulse of death in rhythm.

I read it aloud,

and the paper moaned,

folding centuries of silence

into the air around me.

The final word pressed against my chest,

heavy and alive,

and I knew

it remembered every life I had lost.

I left quietly,

but the poem followed,

folded into veins,

haunting my dreams endlessly.