Writetober 2025, Coven of the Quill, Day 5: Weight of the Unspoken Tide

Unravel out beneath the beam 

that sweeps across the dark unseen. 

My lamp is steady. Nothing sways. 

I

 mark the nights, I count the days.

Across the worn oak floor he sits, 

Where once we laughed in joyful fits. 

No shroud of mist, no chain he drags, no gaping wound, no fearful pits 

Within his eyes. 

He wears no guise 

Of horror meant to paralyze. 

He simply is. A

 solid fact.

 The echo of what I deny.

I don’t find comfort in his memory, even for memory’s sake. He doesn't reach, he doesn't speak, 

no 

motion does his shadow make. 

He is the Chair that stands unfilled, 

The laughter that forever stilled. 

He is the half of every meal, 

the 

promise that was not fulfilled.

And I— 

I tend 

the clockwork bright, 

The only thing that still is right 

How I strain against the ache— To 

wish for him to finally wake! 

To tear 

the

air, to rattle chains, 

to offer one loud, fearful shake!

He takes no life; he brings no fear; he shows the life that's flown. 

Utterly present, perfectly gone, 

He watches always, from eternal dawn 

Until the lamp is lit once more, 

As I sit withdrawn.

written by Zoe