The language of crows (Marcella Boccia)

They gather where the twilight fades,
black scribes upon the weary sky,
their voices stitched in broken shades,
a riddle sung, a last goodbye.
I hear them whisper, sharp and low,
in tones no lips have ever learned,
a tongue of sorrow, born of woe,
where every sound is lost, then burned.
They call to me, they chant my name,
as if they know the things I hide,
the secrets buried, burned in shame,
the silent grief I keep inside.
Yet still I listen, still I wait,
for words I’ll never understand—
a fate foretold, a sealed fate,
scratched in the dust by feathered hand.

Ghosts in my veins  (Marcella Boccia)

They move like whispers through my blood,
soft specters spun from loss and lore,
a fleeting chill, a crimson flood,
the echoes of what came before.
They hum in pulses, dark and deep,
old voices buried in my skin,
they stir in dreams, they wake in sleep,
they call me back, they pull me in.
No priest can bless, no fire can burn,
no love can hush their sad refrains—
for I was born, and I will turn
to dust with ghosts still in my veins.

The door I never opened  (Marcella Boccia)

I traced its edges in the night,
where dust and silence intertwined,
a threshold bathed in silver light,
a passage locked inside my mind.
My fingers lingered on the grain,
a trembling thought, a breath held tight,
behind it—shadows called my name,
but I stepped back, escaped their sight.
Some doors, once touched, will not forget,
some truths, once known, will twist and bend—
so I walked on, though still I fret
for all I lost, for what won’t end.

In the hollow of my heart (Marcella Boccia)

There is a place no light can reach,
no lover’s hand, no whispered prayer,
a silent wound too deep for speech,
a hollow carved by time and air.
The winds may howl, the tides may turn,
yet nothing fills the space I keep,
where embers ache but never burn,
where echoes sing but never weep.
No key, no name, no voice, no art
could ever mend or tear apart
the void that breathes, the ghost that dwells
within the hollow of my heart.

The echo of an unspoken word (Marcella Boccia)

It lingers where the silence sways,
between the dusk, beneath the tide,
a ghost that time cannot erase,
a shadow I have locked inside.
No lips have shaped it into breath,
no hand has traced it into ink,
yet in the hollow hush of death,
it haunts the space between the brink.
No ear will catch, no voice will claim,
no wind will carry what it heard—
for only I will know its name,
the echo of an unspoken word.

Letters I never sent (Marcella Boccia)

I wrote them all in ink too pale,
on paper thin as winter air,
each word a ghost, each line a veil,
too frail to hold, too light to bear.
I sealed them with a quiet breath,
addressed to names I dared not speak,
to lovers lost, to dreams of death,
to days that bent but did not break.
They linger still in drawers unseen,
their edges worn, their voices spent—
a graveyard of what could have been,
these letters that I never sent.

The truth beneath my skin (Marcella Boccia)

Beneath my skin, where silence dwells,
a hidden river hums and winds,
a pulse that no confession tells,
a song that no one ever finds.
It burns like stars too far to reach,
too bright to touch, too old to name,
it speaks in shivers, void of speech,
yet every breath still feels the same.
No blade could carve, no voice reveal
the weight I bear, the fire within—
for only darkness knows it’s real,
the truth that lives beneath my skin.

When the moon calls me home (Marcella Boccia)

When the moon calls me home, I go,
soft-footed through the silver air,
where midnight winds and rivers flow
and none can find me anywhere.The world behind dissolves to mist,
its voices drown in hush and glow,
no lover’s hand, no priest’s cold wrist
can hold me back from what I know.For in her light, I am unbound,
no chains, no weight, no name to own—
a whisper lost, a ghost unfound,
when the moon calls me home.

Shadows know my name (Marcella Boccia)

The light may turn, the voices fade,
yet in the dusk I stay the same.
No prayer nor star could tear away
the way the shadows know my name.They slip along the cobbled streets,
they linger soft on windowpanes,
they hum the tune my heartbeat keeps,
they echo loss, they echo pain.No stranger sees, no lover knows
the weight I bear, the silent claim—
but when the night’s last ember glows,
the shadows call me by my name.

The silent confession (Marcella Boccia)

I carved my truth in sleepless air,
where lips would never dare to speak,
a shadowed vow, too faint to bear,
a whisper lost, a promise weak.The candle trembled in the gloom,
its flicker traced what I conceal,
a name unbreathed, a ghost in bloom,
a wound too deep for time to heal.No priest, no saint, no earthly hand
could pull the secret from my chest—
it lingers, quiet, like the sand
that knows the tide but holds the rest.