Tomb like, the chrysalis hangs
inert and stoney cold.
All breath has gone. Death’s boney
touch is resident here.

What was has gone, the door
is sealed, its full-stop placed.
What hope, that nagging whisper
of a different punctuation?

The day after the day before? Or the day before the day to come.
(03.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo Armon • CC BY-SA 3.0