Carrion Light

Carrion Light

You proffer like mildew
through the mind’s cracked seams,
an infestation dressed
in corduroy civility.

The soul withers
in your company—
not from violence,
but from the drought
of anything true.

Your voice—
a clatter of utensils
in an empty drawer;
every word a counterfeit
pressed with sweaty hands.

I watched empathy
drip from your eyes
like oil from a dead lamp—
thick, without heat,
and far too late.

You are no storm,
no knife,
no flame—
just the smog
that poisons slowly,
the stillness that
rots the grain.

And still—
you call it conversation.