He was born with sunlight in his chest
A laugh that spilled without request.
Even sorrow couldn’t stay,
He’d joke it down, then laugh away.
His siblings teased
“He’ll laugh at pain!”
And still, he’d grin and play the game.
A walking spark, a flame in skin,
He lit the room just walking in.
He danced with joy, he lived out loud,
A soul that never wore a shroud.
People gathered, drawn like tide
To warmth he didn’t try to hide.
He gave too much, and gave it fast
No one ever had to ask.
His hands were full, his heart was wide,
He held the world with both inside.
But something changed
The light grew thin.
The fire dimmed beneath his skin.
His laughter cracked, his gaze grew tight,
The days turned gray that once were bright.
She came with smiles, sweet perfume
And slowly poisoned every room.
Not in shouts, but in the space
Where once had lived his open face.
She carved him quiet, piece by piece.
His giving heart, she made it cease.
The man who once had laughed at pain
Now flinched at sunlight, curled in rain.
We watched him melt, year by year
A ghost who hadn’t disappeared.
We begged, we reached, but couldn’t save
The man who laughed, from love turned grave.
Some warned him, soft and out of sight,
“Not all that glows is made of light.”
But he believed the polished grace,
The quiet voice, the sainted face.
She wore her faith like Sunday skin,
A veil to hide the dark within.
And so we watched him take her hand
Not knowing it was sinking sand.
She wore a cross that caught the light,
Carried a knife just out of sight.
Draped in faith to cloak her guise,
Her every vow was drenched in lies
His heart was bright how could it fall?
What kind of past could poison all?
We ask ourselves, again, again
How did no one see the stain?
What kind of wound could twist like this,
To hide such harm behind a kiss?
We search the cracks for signs we missed
The lies disguised, the serpent’s hiss.
We thought he’d found a resting place
A heart to match his endless grace.
But none of us could see the cost,
Or hear the moment we had lost
The boy we knew, the soul so bright,
Handed quietly to his night.
It was her hand, though none could see,
That turned his joy to misery.
She drained the life with veiled intent
And wore his death like an accident.
He didn’t die in just one day
He faded, slowly, slipped away.
And when he left, no breath, no sound
He’d long been buried above the ground.
So mark this truth:
It isn’t knives
That end the brightest, loudest lives.
Sometimes, it’s love laced in disguise
That kills with silence and with lies.
— Mekdes