Under the Weight

The air presses,
a weight I can’t shake—
like a curtain that never rises,
the weight of bodies built to blind,
something heavy,
something rotting.
Time tugs at the edges,
but it’s frozen.
A clock without hands,
mute in the loudest way.

We speak,
but the sound vanishes before it lands.
Words splinter before we can hold them,
shatter like glass under a boot.
We drag them around,
but they don’t fit.
We’ve become hollow vessels,
filling space with clamor,
but it doesn’t cling.

I’m weary,
but I’m not sure who’s weary anymore—
me, or this thing we’ve forged.
It churns and churns,
spinning through dust,
but never arriving.
Louder won’t dissolve it,
and more just smothers.

I want to rip this open,
tear out its veins,
watch the falsehoods drain away
and leave nothing behind but truth.
I want to find something
that doesn’t scorch when you touch it,
something that doesn’t disintegrate
just to endure.

But we crank it up,
bury the silence in more clutter—
distractions to hide the truth,
like there’s a place for the answers,
like they’re hidden in the mess.
Digging into a hole
that doesn’t care.

It’s not there.
It never was.