Men in Black

They arrive beneath the failing light,
wrought from the loom of unbeing,
men not men, but hollowed silhouettes
draped in ink-black rot,
their faces pale as bone dust,
smiling a silence that gnaws the mind.

No questions asked, no answers given—
only the slow decay of meaning,
a ravenous unmaking that crawls
behind your eyes and inside your thoughts,
where memory dissolves like ash
and hope is a whispered rumor,
long dead before it was born.

They do not touch the flesh;
they unthread the soul’s fragile weave,
leaving only the echo of absence,
a shadow’s trace that will not fade,
the slow folding of the world into itself,
the terrible quiet of all things undone.

Watch them stand beneath the jaundiced lamps,
silent statues carved from despair,
waiting—not for you,
but for the hollow places inside you
to open wide and swallow whole
the last flicker of your trembling self.