The Flavour that Mourns

In corridors paved with pending thought,
Where filing cabinets sigh and rot,
A clerk sits still. his name unsure. ,
Entrusted with what none endure.

They spoke of colour, number four,
Beyond the spectral office door,
A shade not seen, nor rightly named,
In systems never yet proclaimed.

Trinary echoes shaped its birth,
No eye beheld it, not on Earth.
It hummed with taste, but not with tongue,
A note of grief forever sung.

It tasted, so the memos say,
Of stars that dimmed and lost their way,
Of neutron hearts that never fell
To black hole’s deep, euphoric hell.

Denied collapse, they simply burned,
While time ignored them, clocks unturned.
Their sorrow, dense, distilled, confined,
A flavour borne in form of mind.

The clerk, in ink, did try to speak
Of flavour mournful, dim and weak:
“It lingers like a law unsigned,
A silence left for none to find.”

His paper filed, his task complete,
No answer came. Just dust. Repeat.

FSF