The Hands That Silence

A shadow bleeds from painted skies, its face carved hollow, weeping lies. A thousand eyes, unblinking, stare, yet none will speak, none dare declare. Red hands like fire smother light, closing mouth and stealing sight. A voice unformed, a breath restrained, a soul bound tight by unseen chains. Behind, the specter ashen, grim, with rivers black that stain its skin. Its grief is endless, sharp, and deep, it watches while the silence keeps. Whose hands are these that choke the air? The ghost of pain, the weight of fear. They teach the tongue to hide its song, to whisper, hush, "you don’t belong." Yet still within, a spark survives, a muted flame that waits, alive. Though shadows press and silence screams, the buried truth still claws through dreams. And one day hands will fall away, the eyes will turn, the dark will sway. A voice long broken will unfold, and bleed its truth in words of gold.