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The light dissolves,

a slow hemorrhaging of gold into bruised arteries

of the horizon. He sits

where the stone of the terrace meets the cold

insistence of the air, a figure

carved from the same silence

as the balustrade.

 

Before him, the forest

a receding tide. The oaks

and ancient pines lose their sharp, barren edges, surrendering

their green identity

to the creeping ink of the blue hour.

 

It is a theft he does not protest. He watches

the shadows climb

the valley walls with a gaze so unblinking

so absolute, that the boundary

of his skin begins to fray.

 

There is no sudden snap,

only a gentle evaporation.

The ache in his joints becomes the hum

of the rising wind;

The silver of his hair,

the first frost of a distant star.

He watches the stillness until

he is no longer the watcher,

but the thing being watched.

 

The perspective shifts—a quiet, cosmic inversion.

He is now

the cobalt depth of the sky,

The long, violet reach

of the cooling earth,

The vast, indigo consciousness

that settles over the world.

From this height, he looks down.

He sees a body—a small, tethered knot of bone and memory—

Sitting in a wicker chair

that has begun to creak with the cold.

It is a curious relic, that man.

 

A statue of salt and spent years,

anchored to the dark

by the weight of a heart

that still beats

like a muffled drum in a hollow hall.

 

The evening looks

upon the old man with a soft, dark pity.

how small he is,

tucked into the corner of the porch,

a comma in a sentence

that has already been spoken.

 

The evening wraps

its velvet arms around his shoulders,

not to comfort, but to claim—

until there is only the terrace, the blue,

and the profound,

terrifying peace of nowhere left to go.