The Quiet Guest

The sun doesn’t drop; it merely retreats,
Leaving the shadows to claim all the streets.
And so comes the silence, a soft-footed thief,
To fold up the spirit and silver the leaf.

It isn’t a wall, though it looms like a stone,
Nor a journey we take entirely alone.
It’s the breath of the ocean returning to deep,
The logic of waking at the end of a sleep.

The clock on the mantel forgets how to chime,
As the soul slips the heavy, gold shackles of time.
No longer the struggle, the heat, or the scar,
Just the cool, steady light of a distant-born star.

For life is a fever, a vibrant, loud spark,
And death is the cool of the porch in the dark.
A rest well-appointed, a debt finally paid,
Where the light meets the loom and the fabric is laid.

 
——-By Aishnei Bag (Class VIII)