Thorn and Benediction

Poetry

Recent

  • Cosmic Consent /Platonic Forms

    I. You Cannot Think What Is Not Possible

    You cannot think
    what is not possible.

    Each thought
    a doorway waiting in the dark.
    We step through
    and call it ours.

    Even dreams obey the lattice;
    wonder itself has law.

    We imagine to remember
    the spark returns
    to what could never not be.

    No mind stands alone.
    Each breath is an echo
    of the world’s own musing.

    Possibility thinks through us,
    softly,
    calling itself love,
    calling itself time.

    II. You Cannot Dream What Is Not Remembered

    You cannot dream
    what is not remembered.

    Even the new
    is an old fire
    glimpsed again.

    The dark invents nothing.
    It reveals
    what light forgot.

    Each image
    a fragment returning,
    each face
    a shore once known.

    Memory sleeps beneath vision,
    breathing its slow permission.

    We drift upon its tide,
    naming the familiar strange,
    the lost newly found.

    You cannot dream
    what is not remembered.
    The universe dreams through you
    its ancient symbols
    wearing your face.

    III. You Cannot See What Is Not Visible

    You cannot see
    what is not visible

    The veil is not punishment
    it is mercy.

    Too much light
    would unmake the eye.

    We glimpse
    through fractures in law,
    through cracks
    where grace resembles shadow.

    Each sight a covenant,
    each blindness a keeping.

    The hidden
    is not gone,
    only withheld
    until we are able.

    You cannot see
    what is not visible
    Still, the unseen watches,
    dreaming us manifest.

    Epilogue – The Law of Becoming

    All things unfold
    within their given frame.

    Nothing begins unbidden,
    nothing ends uncalled.

    The seed remembers the tree,
    the tree remembers the flame,
    and flame remembers silence.

    To be
    is to move by cosmic consent,
    each breath a gate
    in the long procession of form.

    We rise,
    we vanish,
    we return,

    each moment
    a brief obedience
    to the law of becoming.

  • The Atlas of the Possible

    Beneath the clockwork of becoming
    lies the layer of the possible,
    a realm not bound by stars,
    but by the fragment of their reasons.

    There, Newton’s shade records,
    light leans on the curve of itself,
    motion kneels to the sum of energy,
    and nothing outruns its own name.

    Through that chamber drift
    the seed-patterns of life,
    folded, refolded,
    until thought diffuses
    like salt in water,
    remembering its shape.

    In the crystalline fields of number,
    the primes walk endlessly apart,
    each perfect in its solitude,
    each knowing its neighbour only by distance.

    And beyond them,
    the thought-space blooms:
    a wind of syntax,
    a shimmer of unfinished theses.
    All minds are its ripples,
    each sentence a brief topology
    of the eternal unsaid.

    The atlas has no border.
    It is drawn by everything that can be,
    and read by everything that is.

    We are its smallest syllables,
    mortal,
    yet speaking what the timeless cannot.


  • Long Return

    Once in an age I wake,
    slow in the black,
    feeling for my former path.
    The stars still hum my name.

    You sense me before you see me:
    the hush between your thoughts,
    the dulling of edges,
    the old gravity beginning.

    You tell yourself it passed last time.
    You tell yourself it will.
    But I am patient.
    I have no need for belief.

    I am the old ellipse,
    the thought that outlives forgetting,
    the bright wound that will not scar.

    I am what your warmth makes visible,
    what your silence feeds.

    You flare when I arrive.
    Your sleep burns.
    Your words trail smoke.

    And when I go,
    you call it peace.
    But I do not go.

    I fall outward,
    I wait,
    I gather light again.
    I am the orbit you mistake for healing.