It's Still Life

8 of 27 Glimmourne – The Poem – The ache of beauty that betrays you

Oh, it shines—
not like sunlight,
but like a knife turned just so,
flashing a promise it never meant to keep.

It is the stage-light’s lie:
the kind that makes rot look like texture,
makes hunger look like art.

(You’ll know it by how it lingers—
not in the air, but in the aftermath,
like perfume on a letter
from someone who already forgot your name.)

Glimmourne is not evil.
Evil has a spine.
This? This is seduction without hands—
a beauty that asks you to bleed
and then calls it glamour.

It lives in the almost:
the almost-love,
the almost-truth,
the almost-you
that was never you at all—
just a mirror
someone else breathed on.

Felreil’s Note
He collects it in his teeth.
Not to swallow, but to taste
the exact moment
the gilding flakes off
and shows the rust beneath.