Melancholy

For the dreamers, the burned, the forgotten.

I wrote symphonies for ghosts,
and set them all on fire.

My hands once danced on ivory keys—
now they cradle ash and silence.

Behind me, angels weep into stone.
Before me, color bleeds in vain.

The violin sleeps. The piano burns.
The floor remembers your wallets,
but not your names.

I painted rare, and called it love.
They framed it, flipped it,
then left.

I stitched my voice to every canvas,
and watched the wind erase my name.

The noose swings where hope once hung—
above floors, bids, and broken gods.

This is where the dream died.
Not with a rug,
but with a whisper: next.

I was never here at all.
Silence is the only bidder now.

-EyEm