Thorn and Benediction

Poetry

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  • Your Waiting Eye

    The time of opacity ended,
    a coda for the cosmic choir.
    Yet I carried its intent,
    a note stretched thin
    through the widening fabric.

    At first,
    I was not approaching you.
    The ground itself fled faster
    than my own swiftness,
    and so I receded
    while fleeting forward.

    Only by the cloth slackening
    did I draw near,
    threading into a path
    stitched towards your waiting eye.

    I am the echo
    of a universe pausing to breathe,
    the last scattering
    still lodged in my voice.

    I have travelled across the years.
    And when you catch me,
    you will hear again
    that first aria,
    the one that stopped
    yet never ended.

  • Orbit

    The moon inclines,
    oceans tilt,
    a vector drawn through salt and time.

    Blood, too, obeys,
    its rhythm modulated
    by that pale attractor.

    Orbits interlace:
    planet by star,
    star by galaxy,
    galaxy by cluster
    a lattice of pull,
    an architecture of return.

    So thought curves,
    so psyche bends,
    not solitary but sequenced,
    each motion a consequence,
    each desire an orbit traced.

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  • Ants

    In Vesper’s gaze on limestone throne,
    the yellow-black ants creep,
    through moss-forest’s emerald bone,
    then falter, sink, and weep
    in dreamed of caverns veined and deep,
    where carrion choirs in silence keep
    the testament of larval sleep.

    Not earth alone their voices ring,
    their gospel threads the astral dust;
    they feast on organ, stone, and wing,
    they sanctify what breaks to rust.
    Their mandibles inscribe the law:
    no star endures, no world is just;
    the suns themselves they one day gnaw,
    their hunger patient, endless, must.

    The galaxies in elliptic flight
    are granaries for their unseen reign;
    each orbit marks a dwindling rite,
    each nova but a brief refrain.
    The ants, eternal, small, profane,
    bear entropy’s unbroken chain,
    and whisper to the void’s domain:
    “All light shall dim, all form shall wane.”

    And Vesper, screened by iron skies,
    disdains in pitiless delight;
    the argent eye, a judge that spies
    the crawling choir’s final rite.

    Through aeons’ ash, through suns that sigh,
    their hymn declaims across the sky:
    the ants attend creation’s pyre,
    crown all that dies within the gyre.


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