Thorn and Benediction

Poetry

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  • Magma Chamber

    Below the rock, the embers wait,
    a breath withheld by Hades’ gate,
    no crack, no tremor tests the state.
    It glows below.
    Not yet.

    The weight is old, the dark is tight,
    the molten keeps its muted rite;
    no upward surge, no birth of light.
    It glows below.
    Not yet.

    Through hidden stone the currents creep,
    their vow maintained in soundless sleep;
    the chamber guards what fire will reap.
    It glows below.
    Not yet.

    The pressure folds, the strata ache,
    the buried voltages awake;
    still silence holds, refusing break.
    It glows below.
    Not yet.

    A warning hums the inner seam,
    a heat that bends the planet’s dream,
    the pulsing show of pressure’s scheme.
    It glows below.
    Not yet.

    Then stone unbinds its welded core,
    the long delay becomes a door;
    the dark erupts in molten roar.
    It glows below.
    Now.

    The ash ascends, the night unmade,
    the old horizons burned and flayed;
    within the ruin, space is laid.
    It glows below;
    Becomes.

    And through the breach new vapours rise,
    a shaping breath in cooling skies;
    from shattered crust a future cries.
    Reborn below
    through fire.

  • Metaxy

    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.

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  • Metamorphic

    Beneath the vault in locked, dark seam,
    The furnace heaves through basalt night;
    A buried hymn below unseen.

    The mantle shifts its lanes of light,
    A molten rumour speaking spark.
    Ungloving ores by sheerest might

    An ancient lattice makes its mark
    On earth remade by force unnamed
    Bent in shadow, preserved in dark.

    The feldspar softens where it’s flamed,
    The mica warps, the graphite shines.
    All altered, grain by grain, reclaimed.

    The crushing dark redraws the lines,
    For every weight a shaping hand
    That grinds the old resisting signs.

    A stress unseen brings fault to land,
    To will the rigid core to yield
    And breach the sealed horizon’s stand.

    So moves the soul within that field
    Where trials stack to monocline,
    All raw experience annealed.

    A deeper pattern climbs the spine;
    The soul recrystallised in fire,
    Recast beneath the surface lines.

    Still downward goes the buried fire,
    Run deeper through tectonic grade,
    Still closer draws the unmade choir.

    For nothing remains unallayed
    When all must pass through pressure’s gate
    To break, to burn and rise remade.