He walks where time forgets to breathe

A whisper drips beneath the eaves

His hands are slow, his eyes are still

A patient ghost with patient will

No screams are heard beyond the veil

Only songs in minor scale

He works alone beneath the floor

Where locks are laughs, and love’s folklore

In the quiet, he creates

Piece by piece, he contemplates

Shapes and shadows, red and clean

A gallery no eye has seen

With every touch, a secret kept

While all the world above still slept

He calls them muses in his mind

Silent now, but once divine

They danced too close, they burned too bright

So he preserved their final light

He hums while laying out the thread

A melody for those not dead

Each note a tremor, sharp and slow

The kind of art no crowd will know

In the quiet, he creates

Piece by piece, he contemplates

Shapes and shadows, red and clean

A gallery no eye has seen

With every touch, a secret kept

While all the world above still slept

No justice knocks, no angels weep

The earth forgets the ones who sleep

But deep below where darkness clings

He makes his beauty out of screams

In the silence, he refines

A careful craft, between the lines

No witness, judge, or final bell

Just echoes where his lovers dwell

A portrait framed in breathless grace

Each one a name he won’t erase

So if the wind begins to hum

And all your limbs feel strangely numb

Step soft, beware the crimson draft…

He’s waiting, smiling — in his craft.