The Strings Have Gone Silent

The crown doesn’t fit anymore.

It tilts, heavy with yesterday,

thorns hidden beneath the glitter,

pressing into a head that no longer holds songs.

The guitar hums against my ribs,

but the sound is hollow,

a ghost-song trapped in the wood,

a melody with nowhere to go.

Once, my fingers knew how to conjure fire,

how to send chords screaming into the void,

how to make the earth shake beneath me.

Now, the roots climb higher,

wrap around my dress,

pin my ankles to the dirt.

This throne was never meant for me,

this quiet was never my kingdom.

The vines whisper,

but they do not sing.

The air moves,

but it does not answer.

I have played for the wind,

for the stars,

for the people who no longer listen.

I have played until my calluses split,

until the notes dripped crimson,

until I forgot why I started.

Now, I hold the guitar like a relic,

a rusted thing, a broken spell.

My voice is dust,

my hands are still.

Nothing echoes back.

I could break the silence,

I could play again.

But for who? For what?

The roots do not care,

the wind does not care,

the crown does not care.

I close my eyes.

The weight of nothingness settles.

And I wait for the vines

to pull me under.