I am the vault you sealed in the dark,
Where every shriek finds its frozen mark.
Not a stone turned, not a word exhaled,
Just the memory of battles you never detailed.
Your silence became a granite tomb,
Resting heavy on my hollowed-out room.
It is the anchor forged from your retreat,
And the song of victory is always incomplete.

I was the clock that refused to tick,
Holding every wound until it grew thick.
A collector of moments you swore you erased,
A history I curate, fiercely embraced.
Your fury was rain on a desolate plain,
Washing the surface clean, preserving the stain.
The shadow you flee from with frantic regard,
A landscape defined by a broken shard.

I am the whisper the world cannot hear,
The price you pay for banishing fear.
The exquisite currency of a soul you'd deny,
Beneath the bright surface of your effortless lie.
You wore your freedom like a borrowed white dress,
Stitched with the secrets of your silent distress.
The chains you cast off still bind what is true,
In the unseen reflection that watches for you.

I am the ledger where nothing is lost,
The true calculation of every high cost.
I bleed on the pages you dared not to see,
A consequence waiting eternally.
The GHOST of YOU;
still carries the FATE of some undone years.

I am the fire that fuels its own pyre.
The truth you buried is my one desire.

.    .    .