MC the FURT

Yo, the name is the FURT, I’m paying the due,
An offering of gratitude, dedicated to you.
One final petition, a soul’s testament,
Listen to the silence in this settlement.

A bleached tabula rasa, not a syllable to trace,
Stuck in a stasis, I’ve lost my verbal pace.
I plunge into numerical seas, an astronomical deep,
Where the submerged words are the secrets I keep.
Like the galactic rift between distant spheres,
Measured in light-years and crystallized tears.
Aeons of absence in a limitless span,
A vacant expanse beyond the vision of man.

Tracing cryptic logs of a birth without memory,
Searching for the ghosts in my personal history.
I scribbled the pale days, a frail, faded sketch,
Like desperate graffiti that the centuries etch.

It’s a vague savannah, a boundless terrain,
Walking blindfolded through the mist and the rain.
The negative space where your presence used to glow,
Isn't found in the zenith or the void down below.
I peer through the telescope at the edge of the sky,
But the answers are hollow, and the well has run dry.
Like a meteor shower, they flicker and flee,
Into the darkness, into non-entity.

I shredded the parchment, I crushed every sheet,
But erasing the past makes the silence complete.
The future’s a monotone, a colorless screen,
The ache of the memories is vivid and keen.
Yeah, the nostalgia... it’s a razor-sharp sheen.

Through jaded spectacles, the world was a blur,
Until your magnifying glass made the vision occur.
Beyond the convex lens, the colors were birthed,
A delicate radiance where the shadows unearthed.
Even if the miracle remains out of reach,
I’ll harvest the photons that the heavens will preach.
Release them to the firmament, ink-stained and scarred,
And watch the stains ignite into a nebula starred.

"Looking ahead" and "being forward-looking",
Are parallel paths with a different booking.
The sentiments drowned in the well of the blank,
Are permanent scars on a sinking plank.

Millennia of time won’t suture the wound,
But the misspelled words are where purpose is found.
In the stillness of margins, the unspoken lore,
I found the vibration I was longing for.
The broken dialogue won't find a reprise,
No spark of a sequel in these hollowed-out eyes.
But if the bridge between us, our paragraphs of old,
Is a cavernous white, a story untold,
I’ll embrace the void and the stinging of the blade,
And march through the light that the emptiness made