A threshold drawn where limits fail,
the line before all measures pale
to stillness in the primal veil.
Apeiron coils in formless sweep,
serpentine seams beyond the deep.
A field where none may wake or sleep.
Nous angles down through vacant dark,
a vector searching for a mark
within a space that holds no spark.
Between the never and the known,
where neither law nor trace is shown,
the interval remains alone.
No rise, no rest, no further shore
just non-extent enclosing more,
a drift unmoved by time’s old law.
Apeiron hums without a frame;
nous narrows, yet the void remains
untouched by sequence, form, or claim.
If presence stands suspended, bare,
held in tension it cannot share,
a locus without here or there.
Not summoned forth, not sent to fade,
merely aligned in the unmade,
where shape and shapelessness are weighed.
Then stands the soul in its delay,
half in shadow, half in day,
the midpoint where all forces stay.
Not rising, not returned below,
but held where both directions flow
the final place where meaning slows.
Thorn and Benediction 
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