The stars are not as still as they seem,
They pulse and flicker with silent screams.
The night is stitched with unseen eyes,
Glimpses of truths the daylight denies.

A thousand aeons drift like dust,
On cosmic winds of fate unjust.
Planets crumble, gods decay,
Yet something watches far away.

Not bound by flesh, nor locked in time,
It shifts through thought, it warps the mind.
A whisper crawls behind the veil,
A nameless hunger, vast and pale.

What hand first lit the burning sun?
Who carved the orbits one by one?
What madness guides the cosmic tide,
Where all is swallowed, none abide?

The moon is cold, its face untrue,
A mask that cracks to let it through.
Beneath the surface, something stirs,
A shadow writhing, void concurs.

We call it fate, we name it space,
Yet know not what awaits its gaze.
A shrouded maw, a sight unseen,
A beast that dreams beyond the dream.

It whispers secrets, slow and deep,
In riddles carved through time’s asleep.
The past unmade, the future lies,
All things dissolve in hollow skies.

So gaze upon the stars with dread,
For they are tombstones for the dead.
Not gods, not hope, not cosmic grace--
But open mouths in endless space.

And when the silence grips your throat,
When reason drowns, when meaning chokes,
You’ll know the truth the void imparts:
We are but echoes of the dark. 

Emmanuel Komen is an African contemporary poet, philosopher, and thinker based in Nairobi, Kenya. His works explore themes of identity, nature, and the human experience. A passionate motorsport enthusiast, Emmanuel is an avid fan of the safari rally and proudly supports Team Toyota GR.

​

There once was a room where nothing happened.
The floor was covered in plush rugs blanketing the oiled hardwood and the walls held books in a sequence meant to mimic order. Where sounds were absorbed by the thickness of heavy tomes and textiles while the low rumble of distant shrieks approached like thunder, causing the grain of the wood to tremble.
And the key turned in the lock as the handle shook.
 
There once was a room where nothing happened.
The air was warm from the sunlight that dripped through tall windows. Where dust rippled in the light, unsettled by nothing, and landed softly on a potted plant. Shadows shifted over the leaves as tentacles, slick with wet, slid over the window panes while suckers pock pocked their way up the glass, slapping and squelching to blot out the drenching light. And amidst the writhing bodies, a balmy eyelid opened to find the belted curtains suddenly drawn.
 
There once was a room where nothing happened.
Where the softness of a pillow cries for you to come closer, lay your head, and trust the closing of your eyes. Their treaties matched in tone and pitch by the whispering beatific voice that wends through the vent on the floor, sighing in reminiscence of hopelessness and defeat. The murmurs of “why didn’t you?” and “shouldn’t you have?” are sliced by the sliding of the grate into place.
 
There once was a room where nothing happened.
Where the door was bolted and curtains drawn, where sunlight never stretched and sound never echoed. Where all was silent save for the gentle whisper of death slipping love notes under the door.

​Shavauna Munster is a writer and historian living in Salt Lake City. She enjoys weaving the history of medieval physical punishment, medicine, and salvation with her love of creative writing. When she's not working with local history organizations or meeting with her horror writing group, she can be found crocheting with her cats.