CAUTERISED SKY
- Dark Poets Club
- Jan 30
- 1 min read
By Tim Reaper
Morning arrives
like a bandage
pulled off too fast.
The sky is raw,
pink with damage,
and the sun
hangs there
like a cautery tool—
bright, clinical,
unforgiving.
You walk through streets
still wet with night,
past bins that breathe,
past shuttered shops
with their metal eyelids down.
Somewhere, a siren
threads the distance—
a thin red stitch
trying to hold the world together.
You think of the person
you used to be—
how easily they laughed,
how loosely they lived—
and you feel something snap
with quiet precision.
Grief isn’t always a storm.
Sometimes it’s a clean cut,
a sealed wound,
a smile that holds
because it has to—
and the sky above you
burns on,
sterilising everything,
pretending it’s mercy.