Loneliness does not comfort.
It whispers in corners,
paints faces on the walls,
teaches the air to answer back
until silence itself grows a mouth.
It mocks you with your own thoughts,
turns them into demons,
a jury of sneering voices
that bully from inside your skull
until prayer sounds like parody.
It builds cathedrals no prayer can fill,
arches bending over emptiness,
altars dressed in dust,
candles burning for no witness,
light falling like a wound
you cannot bear to look at.
It breeds famine in the soul,
a hunger without teeth,
a thirst without mouth,
a wasting that never stops.
It sands the heart grain by grain,
strips color from the veins,
leaves only a husk standing upright,
a statue eroded in slow collapse.
And when it is finished,
loneliness does not comfort.
It corrupts,
until even your shadow
forgets your shape.
Loneliness Does Not Comfort, It Corrupts
In Luminance 