The air grows thick with what's unsaid,

A murmur rising from the dead

Letters, clutched in silent hands,

Of truths dissolved in shifting sands.

A fever blooms behind the eyes,

Where hidden knowledge softly lies.

Each whispered vow, each broken trust,

Turns living thought to brittle dust.

The shadows lengthen, keen and cold,

For every story left untold.

It burns within, a hungry flame,

To speak the secret, curse the name.

But silence is a heavy shroud,

More potent than a spoken crowd.

And in this fever, dark and deep,

The soul itself begins to weep.

For what is known can never cease,

A poisoned, desperate, brief release