Blackness Thickens In The Hollow Of Time Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Blackness thickens in the hollow of time,
clouds of ruin sink into the marrow of night.
The clock has stopped—
its silence frozen
like a grave in snow.

Moments return without meaning,
a circle of decay,
a fate rehearsed,
a silence rehearsing itself forever.

Man stumbles as a nameless shadow
beneath an abandoned sky,
chasing thirst
and the mirage of bread,
clutching broken husks
that vanish in his hands.

Caged between heat's iron bars
and winter's chain of ice,
he bows before
cold stones for mercy.

Here, the soul
sinks beneath the beasts of the field;
for they, at least, know their path.
But these—
they wander blind, terrified, hollow,
strangers within their own skin.

The mystery of their being
lies veiled, sealed in iron silence,
and even as life bleeds from them,
they never touch its secret pulse.

A twilight with no dawn.
A wandering with no rest.
A book whose script has vanished,
yet is carried still in empty hands.

—September 30,2025