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FINAL CUT

By Vera Von Monika

The stage falls silent, curtains drawn,
Shadows fold where lights have shone.
Each line I spoke, each step I made,
Now drifts like smoke, a fleeting parade.

I wander halls of memory’s keep,
Where laughter lingers, where sorrows sleep.
A thousand faces, a thousand names,
All burned in the quiet of forgotten flames.

The ink has dried, yet rivers run,
Through all the battles lost and won.
Each mark, a story carved in time,
A hymn, a pulse, a fleeting rhyme.

I see the sky, fractured in gold,
Horizons bending, stories untold.
The wind carries whispers, sharp and soft,
Of love and grief and dreams aloft.

No curtain call, no echoing cheer,
Just the weightless hum that draws me near.
To endings that birth, to silence that sings,
To the unseen hand that shapes all things.

And when the final cut is made,
When all the colors bleed and fade,
I rise again in unseen streams,
Alive in shadows, alive in dreams.

The world may close its eyes tonight,
But I am the flame, the pulse, the light.
Through every fall, through every flight,
I am the story, the endless night.

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