Member Poem

A book with brittle, yellowed skin,
its voice devoured by the wind—
it sighs where silence should begin,
its ink dissolved, its breath rescind.

The child with hands like hollow graves
now cradles knowledge, dim and dead;
the past, unprinted, misbehaves,
as wisdom starves where hunger fed.

The echoes speak in tongues of dust,
of promises the paper broke—
but wealth, enshrined in gilded rust,
still laughs behind a curtain’s cloak.

The bell tolls twice, but few may hear,
for hunger hollows out the mind,
and syllables dissolve in fear,
as thoughts grow thin and fate grows blind.

A candle flickers—half a spark—
illuminates the inkless page,
but night reclaims what lurks in dark,
and locks the mind inside its cage.