The air becomes threadbare.
Colors thin, almost translucent.
Sound frays and breaks the deafening silence.
October moves through the unraveling of time,
its limbs plucking strands of reality
like harp strings.
Each pluck summons a ghost
woven from memory’s loose ends.
They drift toward you like logs in a river,
their bodies patterned with forgotten moments,
their voices a loom‑song:
Nothing is lost forever.
Only hidden from plain sight.
Only waiting to be rewoven and made anew.
October offers you a single thread,
pale, trembling, alive,
and asks if you dare pull it
to see what world comes undone
or remade.
About the Creator
Syl De'Vil
Air Force SF veteran, mother, witch, Bone collector, gremlin. skip tracer, I throw knives, and write about life and love and the lack there of all stitched from insomnia. I am just a girl, looking in the void, trying to fit in where I don't
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