BLACK WINGS IN SMOKE

By Vera Von Monika

He didn’t walk in
he emerged.
Like myth,
cut from shadow
and divine restraint.

Black wings unfurled,
veiled in smoke,
each beat behind him
a slow command of grace.

He wasn’t playing music;
he was composing the mood,
with hands like glass
and silence between the notes.

The air chilled,
yet every rhythm burned,
elegant, cold,
precise.

Every motion,
a slow confession.
Every glance,
cinematic in its danger.
The room didn’t breathe;
it paused.
And in that stillness,
only you moved.

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