For The Living.

I do not write to be remembered,
but to seed the silence between your footsteps—
these lines are oil for lamps in unseen tunnels,
a trail left in shadows
by one who found a way through.

Each date I etched was a gate,
each word—a stone laid in obedience.
So you might know:
I walked when I couldn’t see,
and still believed in the Voice behind the veil.

When you speak of me,
let laughter rise first.
Let your remembering be a defiant joy—
a sword drawn in the face of forgetting.

We danced on burning ground,
and sang beneath the weight of many skies.
In your darkest echoes,
know this:
you are not alone.
You never were.

Don’t mistake this as farewell—
this is only a folding of time.
The hour is sealed in the hands of the Watcher,
and I am still unfolding
like light through cracked walls.

Resurrection is not always thunder and tombs—
sometimes, it’s a whisper,
a breath in the right direction,
a pact not spoken aloud
but signed in becoming.
And all I ask is this:
be as whole as I dared to be.

Still, even now,
there are those who traffic in eclipse,
who plant decay in gardens not theirs.
They bend shadows,
hoping to unwrite what was scribed in fire.

But the Architect mocks their maps.
His covering is unstealable.
Their devices fold inward,
their traps spring empty.
Not for my sake—
but for the symmetry of the story.

Yet mercy leans, still,
like a door unlatched in storm.
To the keepers of hidden knives:
the hourglass hasn’t emptied.

Lay down your blueprints.
Your siege has no spoils.
He can still call your name
from the other side of silence.
He called mine.
There is no shame in being found—
only light,
and the sound of gates opening.