Marco Di Caprio

Seated in my grandfather’s worn chair,
 in darkness thick within his silent room,
 I felt the urge to chant broken prayers,
 as though mere sound could lift this heavy gloom.

Another sip of whisky dulls the mind.
 No thought remains, just words reduced to rust,
 half-buried in a storm that blinds within.

Why does the snow persist in this closed space,
 while far outside it melts and yields to spring?

Too many days I’ve stared into the void,
 a road that stretches outward without end.
 Once, deep within, there was a point of light,
 now dimmed beyond all effort to restore.