The One Without a Face Owns the Room

Two heads breathe the same dark 
one jagged with fury, each spike a tightened word,
teeth clamped around something
it cannot swallow, cannot release.

The other: rubbed out.
Scrawled over until only the contour of command remains.
No eyes required
when the seeing has already been chosen.

Between them, a thread 
thin as an alibi,
pulled tight as the silence
after the unsayable lands.

Below, in the white unrest,
small forms scatter and fall 
bodies mid-collapse,
fragments of a language
still waiting to be born.

To the left, a hand grips something 
a list, a line, a quiet verdict.
The letters lean together
like witnesses who dare not stand alone.

This is the pattern:
one face burns in plain sight,
the other governs unseen,
and everything beneath
learns to fall
into the shapes it’s given.

The erased one needs no features.
Power rarely does.

Object number

013.041