Violet Phases, Silent Spell

Violet Phases, Silent Spell

A thin curved whisper, in a violet sky,

It leans like a secret, it refuses to die.

Night breathes low, in a hush so deep,

Where ancient shadows begin to creep.

A widening glow, the pulse grows near,

It hums like a warning, it feeds on fear.

Silver forgotten, now painted in bruise,

A colour of magic the dark would choose.

Half of a truth, half buried in night,

A balance of wrong, a fracture of right.

It stares like an eye that never will close,

And gathers the weight of all it knows.

Swollen and rising, a gathering flame,

No gentle moon, it has no name.

It drinks from the dark, it bends the air,

A presence that knows you are standing there.

Full in its power, a violet crown,

It presses the silence heavily down.

No stars dare speak, no wind will cry,

Beneath its gaze, even ghosts comply.

Then slowly it breaks, retreats in shade,

Like a pact with night that cannot be stayed.

Its edges soften, its hunger withdraws,

Yet leaves behind unspoken laws.

A thinning arc, a dying gleam,

It flickers between the real and dream.

The dark reclaims what once was shown,

And folds the sky back to its own.

A final sliver, a breath, a trace,

Then nothing remains in that haunted space.

But deep in the black, the echo stays,

Awaiting return, through endless phase.

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