The velvet chime of a sunless bell,
Drowning in the math of a hollow well.
A cipher carved in the bone of a hawk,
Where the silence breathes and the shadows talk.
Beneath the arch of the glass-blown sky,
The ghosts of the unmade questions lie.
They drink from the salt of a desert’s dream,
Stitched with the thread of a lightless beam.
The clock repeats what the dust forgot,
In the tangle of a Gordian knot.
A map of a city that never was seen,
Tracing the space in the grey between.
No truth is held in the open hand,
Only the weight of the shifting sand.
For the secret is kept by the one who knows
How the blackest ink in the river flows.
No comments:
Post a Comment