Enigma bled through each crack in the walls.

I lifted my head with a creak,

to match the creak created by the opulent chandeliers,

swaying above in a languid drawl.

Each bulb appeared as though,

in its effulgent incandescence, it would weep.

As I soared through the hallways, beckoned by a call,

calls from portraits, avowedly lifeless, lining every wall,

one held a lady with a face the same as mine,

another, a man with the nose I always maligned,

the third, a girl whose still lips looked unusual,

because I am so used to looking at them whine.

Arrays of pictures were sprawled across walls, left and right,

until I reached one I unfalteringly recognized,

It was a portrait of me.

My own lips from the portrait smiling at me as I watched,

blossoming one at that moment as I realized,

these are portraits of my family,

and I was the very last thread of the brilliant tapestry.


The family that passed down its wisdom to me,

like sand falling in an hourglass leisurely.

The family that healed me,

when life would pierce its arrows through me.

The family that was there for me,

when I was the last, lonesome grain of sand left to fall through the hourglass.

My mind wandered back to the beginning,

dwelling upon the scene,

when one chandelier began swaying,

all the others joined it, creating a synergy.

And when one bulb wished to glow brighter,

another flickered, lending its light,

sacrificing all that it was made to do tonight,

just like the family you witnessed along with me on the journey.

My family, for whom I would let a bullet through me.

My family, whose love is vaster than the seven seas.