Beneath the brittle bones of twilight’s blush,  
A quivering heart, crystalline and cleft,  
Whispers woes where wistful winds grow lush—  
A symphony of silken sighs bereft.  

Oh, tremulous tempest! Thy tender throes  
Echo in ether, where love’s lantern dies.  
Each pulse, a parchment pierced by phantom blows,  
As shadows shatter sanguine, starlit skies.  

Hark—how the hollowed harp of hope now hums,  
A dirge through dunes where dreams lie drowned, defiled.  
The clock’s cold chime, a cadence cruel, succumbed  
To murmurs marring mirth, a mourner’s child.  

'Crash'- the glass of grace, once gleaming, grieves,  
Its shards now serpents, searing, sans reprieve.  
The moon’s mute mouth spills silver, spectral sieves  
That sieve his soul to sand, to sullen sheaves.  

Madness mists his mind, a maelstrom’s muse,  
Where fractured flames of fervor fumble, fray.  
No nectar-note, no nocturne can diffuse  
The thorns that thrash through threads of yesterday.  

Yet in the waltz of waning, wilted wings,  
A fragile phoenix dares to drown, to rise—  
For even shattered stars still softly sing  
Of love’s lost lexicon, lorn… yet 'alive'