How to Mourn an Unborn Future

First, dig a hole no deeper than memory,

beneath stones that shudder through flames.

Whisper its dirge or invite its misery,

and press silence into the soil like seed.

Measure the time by the heartbeats of three—

one for each October removed.

Weep once—for the breath you offered.

How else could grief grow anything but shadow?

Boil the ghost of tomorrow slow,

but salt the silence it left behind.

Place a stone at the door each dawn,

but leave the latch unhooked for frost.

Peel back the skin you’ve worn for years.

Hang it high in salt-stung wind.

Pray thrice to names never spoken—

but never kiss the thing in the dark.

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Adrian Weston writes dark fiction and poetry that explores grief, ritual, and the spaces between the sacred and the haunted. Their work blends gothic, folkloric, and speculative elements, with a focus on voice, body, and memory.