The Vault

There is a room beneath the noon—no clocks, no sun.

We fold morning into a coin, slip it under the tongue,

enter with pockets full of hours.

Outside, the city bargains

with horns and flyers.

We learn the economy of absence: how

to make a day vanish

between two breaths.

Sometimes, life asks for me back:

I hand myself over as a crumpled note.

Though I carry in my chest the debt of having been gone,

I like the red lights that rain,

the downward spiral,

the velvet dark that makes

the outside world seem normal.

But then I fear the favour—the way the vault

keeps me small so it may keep me longer.

One day I will return home at night,

count streets with my bare feet,

see my steps with eyes that sleep,

my will large enough to break

the door that locks.

Published by Dark Poets Club, 2026, and received an honourable mention.