Distillation of a Broken Heart

Vexa Moon

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Distillation of a Broken Heart

The winter came with iron winds
And frost on chapel stone,
The year the alchemist returned
To find himself alone.

No plague had claimed his cherished love,
No blade had drawn her breath;
She simply vanished from his life
Like sunlight into death.

Yet absence proved a crueler wound
Than any grave could be,
For ghosts at least possess a shape
To haunt the memory.

For seven nights he neither slept
Nor left his candle’s gleam;
He wandered through abandoned rooms
As though inside a dream.

At last he climbed the winding stair
To his forbidden hall,
Where silver instruments lay still
In shadows on the wall.

“There must be substance within grief,”
He murmured to the night.
“If sorrow governs flesh and soul,
Then sorrow has a weight.”

He drew a blade of polished glass
Across his trembling chest.
From his broken heart he harvested
The anguish it possessed.

The crimson drops he gathered there
Were fed to furnace flame,
And through the alembic’s coiling veins
A stranger liquid came.

Not red as blood, nor black as death,
Nor gold like molten sun—
A silver fluid, pale and cold,
Reflecting everyone.

Within its depths appeared faint scenes
That flickered into sight:
A hand once held, a final kiss,
A face beneath moonlight.

The alchemist gazed long within
And felt his sorrow cease.
For every treasured memory
Returned in perfect peace.

But when he reached to touch the flask,
A dreadful thing began—
Not only his own vanished love,
But every love of man.

He saw a widow’s final embrace
Beside a fevered bed.
A soldier reading one last note
From one long buried dead.

He felt the ache of countless hearts
Across the centuries,
Their farewells drifting through his veins
Like leaves on spectral seas.

A thousand lovers wept at once.
A thousand voices cried.
Each memory became his own;
Each loss lived deep inside.

He staggered back in horror then
And sealed the silver tide,
Yet word of his creation spread
Both far and deep and wide.

The lonely sought his hidden tower.
The grieving crossed the moor.
They begged to taste forgotten joys
They could not bear no more.

One touch was all it ever took.

A fingertip. A tear.

And every lost affection bloomed
With unbearable clarity.

Mothers held children long deceased.
Old sweethearts smiled again.
The dead returned through memory’s gate,
Then vanished into pain.

The victims ceased to eat or sleep.
They sat with vacant eyes,
Watching endless recollections
Pass beneath phantom skies.

Days became years.
Years became moments.
Time unraveled into haze.

For every memory opened ten,
And each of those a maze.

A first embrace beneath the rain.
A dance by candlelight.
A voice once heard in passing years
Repeating through the night.

No ending came.
No healing followed.
No farewell could be said.

The silver liquid trapped them all
Among the living dead.

At last the alchemist looked upon
The ruin he had made.
The halls were filled with dreamers lost
In memory’s endless shade.

In grief he seized the cursed flask
And hurled it to the floor.
The silver essence spilled and spread
Across the chamber’s core.

The liquid vanished with a hiss,
Like moonlit mist at dawn.

But every soul it ever touched
Remained forever gone.

Some say they wander even now
Through corridors unseen,
Reliving every cherished loss
Like figures in a dream.

And when the moon is bright and cold
Above the silent heart,
You may glimpse silver in the dark—

The place where love
And memory
Refuse to part.